.   Ti 

UNIVERSITY 
OF 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


Queer  Stories 


For  Boys  and  Girls 


BY 

EDWARD   EGGLESTON 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  HOOSIER  SCHOOLMASTER,"  "THE  HOOSIER  SCHOOL-BOY,"  ETC. 


NEW  YOKE: 

ORANGE    JUDD    COMPANY,     PUBLISHERS. 

1884. 


COPYRIGHT,  1884,  BY 
EDWARD   EGGLESTON 


TROWS 

PRINTING  AND   BOOKBINDING  COMPANY", 
NEW   YORK. 


PREFACE. 


stories  here  reprinted  include  nearly  all  of  those 
which  I  have  written  for  children  in  a  vein  that  en 
titles  them  to  rank  as  "  QUEER  STORIES,"  that  is,  stories 
not  entirely  realistic  in  their  setting  but  appealing  to  the 
fancy,  which  is  so  marked  a  trait  of  the  minds  of  boys 
and  girls.  "  Bobby  and  the  Key-hole  "  appeared  eight 
or  nine  years  ago  in  St.  Nicholas,  and  has  never  before 
been  printed  in  book  form.  The  others  were  written 
earlier  for  juvenile  periodicals  of  wide  repute  in  their  time 
— periodicals  that  have  now  gone  the  way  of  almost  all 
young  people's  magazines,  to  the  land  of  forgetfulness. 
Although  I  recall  with  pleasure  the  fact  that  these  little 
tales  enjoyed  a  considerable  popularity  when  they  first 
appeared,  I  might  just  as  well  as  not  have  called  them 
"  The  Unlucky  Stories."  In  two  or  three  forms  some  of 
the  stories  that  form  this  collection  ruive  appeared  in  book 

MS113D6 


IV  PREFACE. 


covers  in  years  past,  but  always  to  meet  with  disaster  that 
was  no  fault  of  theirs.  Two  little  books  that  contained  a 
part  of  the  stories  herein  reprinted  were  burned  up — plates, 
cuts  and  all — in  the  Chicago  fire  of  1871.  Another  book, 
with  some  of  these  stories  in  it,  was  issued  by  a  pub 
lisher  in  Boston,  who  almost  immediately  failed,  leaving  the 
plates  in  pawn.  These  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  man  who 
issued  a  surreptitious  edition,  and  then  into  the  possession 
of  another,  to  whom  at  length  I  was  forced  to  pay  a  round 
sum  for  the  plates,  in  order  to  extricate  my  unfortunate 
tales  from  the  hands  of  freebooters.  This  is  therefore  the 
first  fair  and  square  issue  in  book  form  that  these  stories 
have  had.  For  this  they  have  been  revised  by  the 
author,  and  printed  from  plates  wholly  new  by  the  liber 
ality  of  the  present  publisher. 

E.  E. 
OWLS'  NEST,  Lake  George,  1884. 


CONTENTS. 


QUEER   STORIES.  PACK 

BOBBY  AND  THE  KEY-HOLE,  A  HOOSIER  FAIRY  TALE,  .      3 

MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK, 23 

THE  CHAIRS  IN  COUNCIL, 60 

WHAT  THE  TEA-KETTLE  SAID, 67 

CROOKED  JACK, 72 

THE  FUNNY  LITTLE  OLD  WOMAN,  .....    77 
WIDOW  WIGGINS'  WONDERFUL  CAT,        .        .        .        .83 

CHICKEN  LITTLE  STORIES. 

SIMON  AND  THE  GARULY, 91 

THE  JOBLILIES, ioi 

THE  PICKANINNY, 1 1 1 

THE  GREAT  PANJANDRUM  HIMSELF,        .        .        .        .120 

STORIES  TOLD  ON  A  CELLAR-DOOR. 

THE  STORY  OF  A  FLUTTER-WHEEL,  .       .        .        .        .  137 

THE  WOOD-CHOPPER'S  CHILDREN, 143 

THE  BOUND  BOY,        ........  149 


VI  CONTENTS. 

1«AGK 

THE  PROFLIGATE  PRINCE, 155 

THE  YOUNG  SOAP-BOILER, 160 

THE  SHOEMAKER'S  SECRET, 168 

MODERN  FABLES. 

FLAT  TAIL  THE  BEAVER, 177 

THE  MOCKING-BIRD'S  SINGING-SCHOOL,  .        .        .        .181 
THE  BOBOLINK  AND  THE  OWL,        .        .        .        .        .185 


Queer  Stories. 


BOBBY   AND   THE   KEY-HOLE. 

A  Hoosier  Fairy  Tale. 


YOU  think  that  folks  in  fine  clothes  are  the  only  folks 
that  ever  see  fairies,  and  that  poor  folks  can't  afford 
them.  But  in  the  days  of  the  real  old-fashioned  "  Green 
Jacket  and  White  Owl's  Feather"  fairies,  it  was  the  poor 
boy  carrying  fagots  to  the  cabin  of  his  widowed  mother 
who  saw  wonders  of  all  sorts  wrought  by  the  little  people  ; 
and  it  was  the  poor  girl  who  had  a  fairy  godmother.  It 
must  be  confessed  that  the  mystery-working,  dewdrop- 
dancing,  wand-waving,  pumpkin-metamorphosing  little 
rascals  have  been  spoiled  of  late  years  by  being  admitted 
into  fine  houses.  Having  their  pictures  painted  by  artists, 
their  praises  sung  by  poets,  their  adventures  told  in  gilt- 
edge  books,  and,  above  all,  getting  into  the  delicious  leaves 
of  ST.  NICHOLAS,  has  made  them  "stuck  up,"  so  that  it  is 
not  the  poor  girl  in  the  cinders,  nor  the  boy  with  a  bundle 
of  fagots  now,  but  girls  who  wear  button  boots  and  tie- 
back  skirts,  and  boys  with  fancy  waists  and  striped  stock 
ings  that  are  befriended  by  fairies,  whom  they  do  not 
need. 


QUEER   STORIES. 


But  away  off  from  the  cities  there  still  lives  a  race  of 
unflattered  fairies  who  are  not  snobbish,  and  who  love 
little  girls  and  boys  in  pinafores  and  ragged  jackets. 
These  spirits  are  not  very  handsome,  and  so  the  artists  do 
not  draw  their  pictures,  and  they  do  not  get  into  gilt-edge 
Christmas  books.  Dear,  ugly,  good  fairies  !  I  hope  they 
will  not  be  spoiled  by  my  telling  you  something  about 
them. 

Little  Bobby  Towpate  saw  some  of  them  ;  and  it's 
about  Bobby,  and  the  fairies  he  saw,  that  I  want  to  speak. 
Bobby  was  the  thirteenth  child  in  a  rather  large  family — 
there  were  three  younger  than  he.  He  lived  in  a  log 
cabin  on  the  banks  of  a  stream,  the  right  name  of  which 
is  "  Indian  Kentucky  Creek."  I  suppose  it  was  named 
"  Indian  Kentucky"  because  it  is  not  in  Kentucky,  but  in 
Indiana  ;  and  as  for  Indians,  they  have  been  gone  many  a 
day.  The  people  always  call  it  "  The  Injun  Kaintuck." 
They  tuck  up  the  name  to  make  it  shorter. 

Bobby  was  only  four  years  and  three-quarters  old,  but 
he  had  been  in  pantaloons  for  three  years  and  a  half,  for 
the  people  in  the  Indian  Kaintuck  put  their  little  boys 
into  breeches  as  soon  as  they  can  walk — perhaps  a  little 
before.  And  such  breeches  !  The  little  white-headed 
fellows  look  like  dwarf  grandfathers,  thirteen  hundred 
years  of  age.  They  go  toddling  about  like  old  men  who 
have  grown  little  again,  and  forgotten  everything  they 
ever  knew. 


BOBBY    AND   THE    KEY-HOLE.  5 

But  Bobby  Towpate  was  not  ugly.  Under  his  white 
hair,  which  "looked  every  way  for  Sunday,"  were  blue 
eyes  and  ruddy  cheeks,  and  a  mouth  as  pretty  as  it  was 
solemn.  The  comical  little  fellow  wore  an  unbleached 
cotton  shirt,  and  tattered  pantaloons,  with  home-made 
suspenders  or  "  gallowses."  The  pantaloons  had  always 
been  old,  I  think,  for  they  were  made  out  of  a  pair  of  his 
father's — his  "  daddy's,"  as  he  would  have  told  you — and 
nobody  ever  knew  his  father  to  have  a  new  pair,  so  they 
must  have  been  old  from  the  beginning.  For  in  the  Indian 
Kaintuck  country  nothing  ever  seems  to  be  new.  Bobby 
Towpate  himself  was  born  looking  about  a  thousand  years 
old,  and  had  aged  some  centuries  already.  As  for  hat, 
he  wore  one  of  his  daddy's  old  hats  when  he  wore  any, 
and  it  would  have  answered  well  for  an  umbrella  if  it  had 
not  been  ragged. 

Bobby's  play-ground  was  anywhere  along  the  creek  in 
the  woods.  There  were  so  many  children  that  there  was 
nobody  to  look  after  him  ;  so  he  just  kept  a  careful  eye 
on  himself,  and  that  made  it  all  right.  As  he  was  not  a 
very  energetic  child,  there  was  no  danger  of  his  running 
into  mischief.  Indeed,  he  never  ran  at  all.  He  was 
given  to  sitting  down  on  the  ground  and  listening  to  the 
crazy  singing  of  the  loons — birds  whose  favorite  amuse 
ment  consists  in  trying  to  see  which  can  make  the  most 
hideous  noise.  Then,  too,  he  would  watch  the  stake- 
drivers  flying  along  the  creek,  with  their  long,  ugly  necks 


QUEER   STORIES. 


sticking  out  in  front  of  them,  and  their  long,  ugly  legs 
sticking  out  behind  them,  and  their  long,  ugly  wings  stick 
ing  out  on  each  side  of  them.  They  never  seemed  to 
have  any  bodies  at  all.  People  call  them  stake-drivers 
because  their  musical  voices  sound  like  the  driving  of  a 
stake  :  "  Ke- whack  !  ke- whack  !  "  They  also  call  them 
"  Fly-up-the-creeks,"  and  plenty  of  ugly  names  besides. 

It  was  one  sleepy  summer  afternoon  that  Bobby  sat 
on  the  root  of  a  beech-tree,  watching  a  stake-driver  who 
stood  in  the  water  as  if  looking  for  his  dinner  of  tadpoles, 
when  what  should  the  homely  bird  do  but  walk  right  out 
on  the  land  and  up  to  Bobby.  Bobby  then  saw  that  it 
was  not  a  stake-driver,  but  a  long-legged,  long-necked, 
short-bodied  gentleman,  in  a  black  bob-tail  coat.  And 
yet  his  long,  straight  nose  did  look  like  a  stake-driver's 
beak,  to  be  sure.  He  was  one  of  the  stake-driver  fairies, 
who  live  in  the  dark  and  lonesome  places  along  the 
creeks  in  the  Hoosier  country.  They  make  the  noise 
that  you  hear,  "  Ke- whack  !  ke-whack  !  "  It  may  be  the 
driving  of  stakes  for  the  protection  of  the  nests  of  their 
friends  the  cat-fish. 

"  Good-morning,  Bobby,  ke-whack  !  "  said  the  long, 
slim  gentleman,  nodding  his  head.  He  said  ke-whack 
after  his  words  because  that  is  the  polite  thing  to  do 
among  the  stake-driver  fairies. 

"  My  name  haint  Bobby  Ke-whack,  nur  nothin',"  an 
swered  Bobby.  The  people  on  Indian  Kaintuck  say  "  nor 


BOBBY   AND   THE    KEY-HOLE. 


nothin',"  without  meaning  anything  by  it.  "  My  name 
hamt  on'y  jeth  Bob,  an'  nothin'  elth." 

But  the  slender  Mr.  Fly-up-the-creek  only  nodded  and 
said  ke-whack  two  or  three  times,  by  way  of  clearing  his 
throat. 

"  Maybe  you'd  like  to  see  the  folks  underground, 
ke-whack,"  he  added  presently.  "  If  you  would,  I  can 
show  you  the  door  and  how  to  unlock  it.  It's  right 
under  the  next  cliff,  ke-whack  !  If  you  get  the  door 
open,  you  may  go  in  and  find  the  Sleepy-headed  People, 
the  Invisible  People,  and  all  the  rest,  ke-whack  ! " 

"  Ke-whack  !  "  said  Bob,  mimicking,  and  grinning  till 
he  showed  his  row  of  white  milk-teeth.  But  the  gentle 
man  stake-driver  must  have  been  offended,  for  he  walked 
away  into  the  water  and  disappeared  among  the  willows, 
saying,  "  Ke-whack  !  ke-whack  !  "  in  an  indignant  way 
at  every  step. 

When  once  the  stake-driver  fairy  had  gone,  Bob  was 
troubled.  He  was  lonesome.  He  had  always  been  lone 
some,  because  the  family  was  so  large.  There  is  never 
any  company  for  a  body  where  there  are  so  many.  Now 
Bob  wished  that  "  Ole  Ke-whack,"  as  he  called  him,  had 
not  walked  off  into  the  willows  in  such  a  huff.  He  would 
like  to  see  who  lived  under  the  ground,  you  know.  After 
a.  while,  he  thought  he  would  go  and  look  for  the  door 
under  the  cliff.  Bobby  called  it  "  clift,"  after  the  manner 
of  the  people  on  the  Indian  Kaintuck. 


8  QUEER   STORIES. 


Once  under  the  cliff,  he  was  a  long  time  searching 
around  for  a  door.  At  last  he  found  a  something  that 
looked  like  a  door  in  the  rock.  He  looked  to  see  if  there 
was  a  latch-string,  for  the  houses  in  the  Indian  Kaintuck 
are  opened  with  latch-strings.  But  he  could  not  find  one. 
Then  he  said  to  himself  (for  Bobby,  being  a  lonesome 
boy,  talked  to  himself  a  great  deal)  words  like  these  : 

"  Ole  Ke- whack  thed  he  knowed  wharabout  the  key 
mout  be.  The  time  I  went  down  to  Madison,  to  market 
with  mammy,  I  theed  a  feller  dretht  up  to  kill  come  along 
and  open  hith  door  with  a  iron  thing.  That  mout  be  a 
key.  Wonder  ef  I  can't  find  it  mythelf  !  There,  I  come 
acrost  the  hole  what  it  goeth  into." 

He  had  no  trouble  in  "  coming  acrost  "  the  key  itself, 
for  he  found  it  lying  on  the  ground.  He  took  it  up, 
looked  at  it  curiously,  and  said  :  "  Thith  thing  muth  be  a 
key."  So  he  tried  to  put  it  into  the  key-hole,  but  an  un 
expected  difficulty  met  him.  Every  time  he  tried  to  put 
in  the  key,  the  key-hole,  which  before  was  in  easy  reach, 
ran  up  so  far  that  he  could  not  get  to  it.  He  picked  up 
some  loose  stones  and  piled  them  up  against  the  door, 
and  stood  on  them  on  his  tiptoes,  but  still  the  key-hole 
shot  up  out  of  his  reach.  At  last  he  got  down  ex 
hausted,  and  sat  down  on  the  pile  of  stones  he  had  made, 
with  his  back  to  the  door.  On  looking  round,  he  saw 
that  the  key-hole  was  back  in  its  old  place,  and  within  a 
few  inches  of  his  head.  He  turned  round  suddenly  and 


BOBBY   AND   THE   KEY-HOLE. 


made  a  dive  at  it,  with  the  key  held  in  both  hands,  but 
the  key-hole  shot  up  like  a  rocket,  until  it  was  just  out  of 
his  reach. 

After  trying  to  trap  this  key-hole  in  every  way  he 
could,  he  sat  down  on  a  stone  and  looked  at  it  a  minute, 
and  then  said  very  slowly  :  "  Well,  I  never  I  That  beats 
me  all  holler  !  What  a  funny  thing  a  key-hole  muth 
be." 

At  last  he  noticed  another  key-hole  in  the  rock,  not 
far  away,  and  concluded  to  try  the  key  in  that.  The  key 
went  in  without  trouble,  and  Bob  turned  it  round  several 
times,  until  the  iron  key  had  turned  to  brass  in  his 
hands. 

"The  blamed  thing  ith  turnin'  yaller  !  "  cried  little 
Towpate.  You  must  excuse  Bob's  language.  You  might 
have  talked  in  the  same  way  if  you  had  been  so  lucky  as 

to  be  born  on  the  Indian  Kaintuck. 

• 

Seeing  that  he  could  not  open  anything  by  turning 
the  key  round  in  this  key-hole,  since  there  was  no  door 
here,  he  thought  he  would  now  try  what  luck  he  might 
have  with  the  "  yaller  "  key  in  opening  the  door.  The 
key-hole  might  admit  a  brass  key.  But  what  was  his 
amazement  to  find  on  trying,  that  the  key-hole  which  had 
run  upward  from  an  iron  key,  now  ran  down  toward  the 
bottom  of  the  door.  He  pulled  away  the  stones  and 
stooped  down  till  his  head  was  near  the  ground,  but  the 
key-hole  disappeared  off  the  bottom  of  the  door.  When 


10  QUEER   STORIES. 


he  gave  up  the  chase  it  returned  as  before.  Bobby 
worked  himself  into  a  great  heat  trying  to  catch  it,  but  it 
was  of  no  use. 

Then  he  sat  down  again  and  stared  at  the  door,  and 
again  he  said  slowly  :  "  Well,  I  never,  in  all  my  born'd 
days  !  That  beats  me  all  holler  !  What  a  thing  a  key 
hole  ith  !  But  that  feller  in  town  didn't  have  no  trouble." 

After  thinking  a  while  he  looked  at  the  key,  and  came 
to  the  conclusion  that,  as  the  key-hole  went  up  from  an 
iron  key,  and  down  from  a  brass  one,  that  if  he  had  one 
half-way  between,  he  should  have  no  trouble.  "  Thith 
key  ith  too  awful  yaller,"  he  said.  "  I'll  put  it  back  and 
turn  it  half-way  back,  and  then  we'll  thee." 

So  he  stuck  it  into  the  key-hole  and  tried  to  turn  it  in 
the  opposite  direction  to  the  way  he  had  turned  it  before. 
But  it  would  not  turn  to  the  left  at  all.  So  he  let  go  and 
stood  off  looking  at  it  a  while,  when,  to  his  surprise,  the 
key  began  turning  to  the  right  of  its  own  accord.  And 
as  it  turned  it  grew  whiter,  until  it  was  a  key  of  pure 
silver. 

"Purty  good  for  you,  ole  hoss,"  said  Bob,  as  he 
pulled  out  the  bright  silver  key.  "  We'll  thee  if  you're 
any  better'n  the  black  one  and  the  yaller  one." 

But  neither  would  the  silver  one  open  the  door  ;  for 
the  key-hole  was  as  much  afraid  of  it  as  of  the  brass  one 
and  the  iron  one.  Only  now  it  neither  went  up  nor 
down,  but  first  toward  one  side  of  the  door  and  then 


BOBBY   AND    THE    KEY-HOLE.  II 

toward  the  other,  according  to  the  way  in  which  the  key 
approached  it.  Bobby,  after  a  while,  went  at  it  straight 
from  the  front,  whereupon  the  key-hole  divided  into  two 
parts — the  one  half  running  off  the  door  to  the  right,  the 
other  to  the  left. 

"  Well,  that'th  ahead  of  my  time,"  said  Bob.  But  he 
was  by  this  time  so  much  amused  by  the  changes  in  the 
key  and  the  antics  of  the  nimble  key-hole,  that  he  did  not 
care  much  whether  the  door  opened  or  not.  He  waited 
until  he  had  seen  the  truant  key-hole  take  its  place  again, 
and  then  he  took  the  silver  key  back  to  the  other  key 
hole.  As  soon  as  he  approached  it  the  key  leaped  out  of 
his  hand,  took  its  place  in  the  key-hole,  and  began  to 
turn  swiftly  round.  When  it  stopped  the  silver  had  be 
come  gold. 

"  Yaller  again,  by  hokey,"  said  Bob.  And  he  took 
the  gold  key  and  went  back,  wondering  what  the  key 
hole  would  do  now.  But  there  was  now  no  key-hole.  It 
had  disappeared  entirely. 

Bob  stood  off  and  looked  at  the  place  where  it  had 
been,  let  his  jaw  drop  a  little  in  surprise  and  disappoint 
ment,  and  came  out  slowly  with  this  :  "  Well,  I  never,  in 
all  my  born'd  days  !  " 

He  thought  best  now  to  take  the  key  back  and  have 
it  changed  once  more.  But  the  other  key-hole  was  gone 
too.  Not  knowing  what  to  do,  he  returned  to  the  door 
and  put  the  key  up  where  the  nimble  key-hole  had  been, 


12  QUEER   STORIES. 


whereupon  it  reappeared,  the  gold  key  inserted  itself,  and 
the  door  opened  of  its  own  accord. 

Bob  eagerly  tried  to  enter,  but  there  stood  somebody 
in  the  door,  blocking  the  passage. 

"Hello!"    said    Bob.      "You    here,    Ole    Ke- whack  ? 
How  did  you  get  in  ?     By  the  back  door,  I  'low." 

"  Put  my  yellow  waistcoat  back  where  you  got  it,  ke- 
whack  !  "  said  the  stake-driver,  shivering.  "  It's  cold  in 
here,  and  how  shall  I  go  to  the  party  without  it,  ke- 
whack ! " 

"Your  yaller  wescut  ?  "  said  Bob.  "I  haint  got  no 
wescut,  ke-whack  or  no  ke-whack." 

"  You  must  put  that  away !  "  said  the  fly-up-the- 
creek,  pecking  his  long  nose  at  the  gold  key.  "Ke- 
whack  !  ke-whack  ! " 

"Oh!"  said  Towpate,  "why  didn't  you  say  so?" 
Then  he  tossed  the  gold  key  down  on  the  ground,  where 
he  had  found  the  iron  one,  but  the  key  stood  straight  up, 
waving  itself  to  and  fro,  while  Bobby  came  out  with  his 
drawling  :  "  Well,  I  never  !  " 

"  Pick  it  up  !  Pick  it  up  !  Ke-whack  !  You've  pitched 
my  yellow  waistcoat  into  the  dirt,  ke-whack.  ke-whack  !  " 

"Oh!  You  call  that  a  wescut,  do  you.  Well,  I 
never  !  "  And  Bobby  picked  up  the  k£y,  and  since  he 
could  think  of  no  place  else  to  put  it,  he  put  it  into  the 
key-hole,  upon  which  it  unwound  itself  to  the  left  till  it 
was  silver.  Bobby,  seeing  that  the  key  had  ceased  to 


BOBBY   AND   THE   KEY-HOLE.  13 

move,  pulled  it  out  and  turned  toward  the  open  door  to 
see  the  stake-driver  wearing  a  yellow  vest,  which  he  was 
examining  with  care,  saying,  "  Ke-whack,  ke-whack,"  as 
he  did  so.  "I  knew  you'd  get  spots  on  it,  ke-whack, 
throwing  it  on  the  ground  that  way." 

Poor  Bobby  was  too  much  mystified  by  this  confusion 
between  the  gold  key  and  the  yellow  vest,  or  "  wescut," 
as  they  call  it  on  the  Indian  Kaintuck,  to  say  anything. 

"  Now,  my  white  coat,  put  that  back,  ke-whack," 
said  the  fly-up-the-creek  fairy.  "  I  can't  go  to  the  party 
in  my  shirt  sleeves,  ke-whack." 

"  I  haint  got  your  coat,  Ole  Daddy  Longlegs,"  said 
Bobby,  "  'less  you  mean  this  key." 

On  this  suspicion  he  put  the  key  back,  upon  which  it 
again  unwound  itself  to  the  left  and  became  brass.  As 
soon  as  Bobby  had  pulled  out  the  brass  key  and  turned 
round,  he  saw  that  the  fairy  was  clad  in  a  white  coat, 
which,  with  his  stunning  yellow  vest,  made  him  cut  quite 
a  figure. 

41  Now,  my  yellow  cap,"  said  the  stake-driver,  adding 
a  cheerful  ke-whack  or  two,  and  Bobby  guessed  that  he 
was  to  put  the  brass  key  in  the  key-hole,  whereupon  it 
was  immediately  turned  round  by  some  unseen  power 
until  it  became  iron,  and  then  thrown  out  on  the  ground 
where  Bobby  Towpate  had  found  it  at  first.  Sure 
enough,  the  fairy  now  wore  a  yellow  cap,  and,  quick  as 
thought,  he  stepped  out  to  where  the  key  was  lying,  and 


14  QUEER   STORIES. 


struck  it  twice  with  his  nose,  whereupon  it  changed  to 
a  pair  of  three-toed  boots,  which  he  quickly  drew  on. 
Then  he  turned  and  bowed  to  Bobby,  and  said  : 

"  Ke-whack  !  You've  ironed  my  coat  and  vest,  and 
brushed  my  cap  and  blacked  my  boots.  Good-day,  ke- 
whack,  I'm  going  to  the  party.  You  can  go  in  if  you 
want  to." 

Bobby  stood  for  some  time,  looking  after  him  as  he 
flew  away  along  the  creek,  crying  "  ke-whack,  ke-whack, 
ke-whack  !  "  And  Bobby  said  once  again  :  "  Well,  I 
never,  in  all  my  born'd  days,"  and  then  added,  "  Haint 
Daddy  Longlegs  peart  ?  Thinks  he's  some  in  his  yaller 
wescut,  I  low." 

When  once  the  fly-up-the-creek  had  gone  out  of  sight 
and  out  of  hearing,  Bobby  started  on  his  search  for  the 
Sleepy-headed  People.  He  travelled  along  a  sort  of 
underground  gallery  or  cave,  until  he  came  to-  a  round 
basin-like  place.  Here  he  found  people  who  looked  like 
fat  little  boys  and  girls,  rather  than  men  and  women. 
They  were  lolling  round  in  a  ring,  while  one  of  the  num 
ber  read  drowsily  from  a  big  book  which  was  lying  on  a 
bowlder  in  the  middle  of  this  Sleepy-hollow.  All  seemed 
to  be  looking  and  listening  intently.  But  as  soon  as 
those  who  sat  facing  Bobby  caught  sight  of  him,  they 
gave  a  long  yawn  and  fell  into  a  deep  sleep.  One  after 
another  they  looked  at  him,  and  one  after  another  the 
little  round,  lazy  fellows  gaped,  until  it  seemed  their 


BOBBY   AND   THE   KEY-HOLE.  15 

heads  would  split  open,  then  fell  over  and  slept  soundly, 
snoring  like  little  pigs.  Bobby  stood  still  with  astonish 
ment.  He  did  not  even  find  breath  to  say,  "Well,  I 
never  !  "  For  presently  every  one  of  the  listeners  had 
gone  off  to  sleep.  The  reader,  whose  back  was  toward 
the  new-comer,  did  not  see  him.  He  was  the  only  one 
left  awake,  and  Bobby  looked  to  see  him  drop  over  at 
any  moment.  But  the  little  fat  man  read  right  along  in  a 
drawling,  sleepy  mumble,  something  about  the  Athe 
nians  until  Bob  cried  out:  "Hello,  Ole  Puddin'-bag, 
everybody'th  gone  to  thleep  ;  you'd  jeth  as  well  hole  up 
yer  readin'  a  while." 

The  little  man  rolled  his  eyes  round  upon  Bob,  and 
said:  "  Oh,  my!  I'm  gone  off  again  !"  And  then  he 
stretched  his  fat  cheeks  in  an  awful  yawn. 

"  Hey  !  You'll  never  get  that  mouth  of  your'n  shet, 
ef  you  don't  be  mighty  keerful,"  cried  Bob  ;  but  the 
fellow  was  fast  asleep  before  he  could  get  the  words 
out. 

"  Well  now,  that'th  a  purty  lookin'  crowd,  haint  it?  " 
said  Bob,  looking  round  upon  the  sleepers. 

Just  at  that  moment  they  began  to  wake  up,  one  after 
another,  but  as  soon  as  they  saw  Bob,  they  sighed  and 
said  :  "  He's  so  curious,"  or,  "  He's  so  interesting,"  or 
something  of  the  sort,  and  fell  away  into  a  deep  slumber 
again.  At  last  Bob  undertook  to  wake  some  of  them 
up  by  hallooing,  but  the  more  noise  he  made,  the  more 


l6  QUEER   STORIES. 


soundly  they  slept.  Then  he  gave  over  shaking  them 
and  shouting  at  them,  and  sat  down.  As  soon  as  he 
was  quiet  they  began  to  wake  up  again. 

"  Hello  !"  cried  Bob,  when  he  saw  two  or  three  of 
them  open  their  eyes. 

"  If  you'd  only  keep  still  till  I  get  awake,"  said  one  of 
them,  and  then  they  all  went  to  sleep  again. 

By  keeping  quite  still  he  got  them  pretty  well  waked 
up.  Then  they  all  fell  to  counting  their  toes,  to  keep 
from  becoming  too  much  interested  in  Bobby,  for  just  so 
sure  as  they  get  interested  or  excited,  the  Sleepy-headed 
People  fall  asleep.  Presently  the  reader  awoke,  and 
began  to  mumble  a  lot  of  stuff  out  of  the  big  book,  about 
Epaminondas,  and  Sesostris,  and  Cyaxeres,  and  Clear- 
chus,  and  the  rest,  and  they  all  grew  a  little  more  wake 
ful.  When  he  came  to  an  account  of  a  battle,  Bobby  be 
gan  to  be  interested  a  little  in  the  story,  but  all  the  others 
yawned  and  cried  out,  "  Read  across,  read  across  !  "  and 
the  reader  straightway  read  clear  across  the  page,  mixing 
the  two  columns  into  hopeless  nonsense,  so  as  to  destroy 
the  interest.  Then  they  all  waked  up  again. 

"  I  know  a  better  thtory  than  that  air  !  "  said  Bobby, 
growing  tired  of  the  long  mumbling  reading  of  the  dull 
book. 

"  Do  you  ?     Tell  it,"  said  the  reader. 

So  Bobby  began  to  tell  them  .some  of  his  adventures, 
upon  which  they  all  grew  interested  and  fell  asleep. 


BOBBY   AND   THE   KEY-HOLE.  I/ 

"  Don't  tell  any  more  like  that,"  said  the  little  reader, 
when  he  awoke. 

"What'th  the  matter  weth  it?  Heap  better  thtory 
than  that  big  book  that  you're  a  mumblin'  over,  Mr.  Pud- 
din'." 

"  We  don't  like  interesting  stories,"  said  the  sleepy 
reader.  "They  put  us  to  sleep.  This  is  the  best  book 
in  the  world.  It's  Rollin's  Ancient  History,  and  it  hasn't 
got  but  a  few  interesting  spots  in  the  whole  of  it.  Those 
we  keep  sewed  up,  so  that  we  can't  read  them.  The 
rest  is  all  so  nice  and  dull,  that  it  keeps  us  awake  all 
day." 

Bobby  stared,  but  said  nothing. 

"Can  you  sing  ?"  said  one  of  the  plump  little  old 
women. 

"  Yeth,  I  can  sing  Dandy  Jim." 

"  Let's  have  it.  I  do  love  singing  ;  it  soothes  me  and 
keeps  me  awake." 

Thus  entreated,  little  Bobby  stood  up  and  sang  one 
verse  of  a  negro  song  he  had  heard,  which  ran  : 

"  When  de  preacher  took  his  tex' 
He  look  so  berry  much  perplex' 
Fur  nothin'  come  acrost  his  mine 
But  Dandy  Jim  from  Caroline  !  " 

Bobby  shut  his  eyes  tight,  and  threw  his  head  back 
and  sang  through  his  nose,  as  he  had  seen  big  folks  do. 


1 8  QUEER   STORIES. 


He  put  the  whole  of  his  little  soul  into  these  impressive 
words.  When  he  had  finished  and  opened  his  eyes  to 
discover  what  effect  his  vocal  exertions  had  produced, 
his  audience  was  of  course  fast  asleep. 

''Well,  I  never!"  said  Bob. 

"The  tune's  too  awful  lively,"  said  the  little  old 
woman,  when  she  woke  up.  "  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself.  Now,  hear  me  sing."  And  she  began,  in  a 
slow,  solemn  movement,  the  most  drawling  tune  you  ever 
heard,  and  they  all  joined  in  the  same  fashion  : 

"Poor  old  Pidy, 
She  died  last  Friday  : 
Poor  old  creetur, 
The  turkey-buzzards " 

But  before  they  could  finish  the  line,  while  they  were 
yet  hanging  to  the  tails  of  the  turkey-buzzards,  so  to 
speak,  Bobby  burst  out  with  : 

"  La  !  that'th  the  toon  the  old  cow  died  on.  I 
wouldn't  thing  that." 

"  You  wouldn't,  hey  ?  "  said  the  woman,  getting  angry. 

"  No,  I  wouldn't,  little  dumplin'." 

Whereupon  the  little  woman  got  so  furious  that  she 
went  fast  asleep,  and  the  reader,  growing  interested  and 
falling  into  a  doze,  tumbled  off  his  chair  on  his  head,  but 
as  his  head  was  quite  soft  and  puttyish,  it  did  him  no 
particular  harm,  except  that  the  fall  made  him  sleep  more 
soundly  than  ever. 


BOBBY   AND   THE   KEY-HOLE.  19 

When  they  had  waked  up  again,  Bobby  thought  it  time 
to  move  on,  but  as  soon  as  he  offered  to  move,  the  Sleepy 
heads  surrounded  him  and  began  to  sing  a  drawling  song, 
which  made  Bobby  sleepy.  He  soon  found  that  they 
meant  to  make  him  one  of  themselves,  and  this  was  not  at 
all  to  his  taste.  He  struggled  to  get  away,  but  something 
held  him  about  the  feet.  What  should  he  do  ? 

Suddenly  a  bright  thought  came  to  his  relief.  The 
Sleepy-heads  were  now  all  standing  in  a  ring  around  him. 
He  began  to  tell  a  story  at  the  top  of  his  voice  : 

"My  gran'pappy,  he  fit  weth  a  red  Injun.  An'  the 
Injun  he  chopped  my  gran'pappy's  finger  off  weth  his 
tomahawk,  and— 

But  at  this  point  all  the  little  people  got  intensely  ex 
cited  over  Bobby's  gran'pappy's  fight,  and  so,  of  course, 
fell  asleep  and  fell  forward  into  a  pile  on  top  of  Bobby, 
who  had  an  awful  time  getting  out  from  under  the  heap. 
Just  as  he  emerged,  the  people  began  to  wake  up  and  to 
lay  hold  of  his  feet,  but  Bobby  screamed  out : 

"And  my  gran'pappy,  he  up  weth  his  hatchet  and  he 
split  the  nasty  ole  red  Injun's  head  open " 

They  were  all  fast  asleep  again. 

Bobby  now  ran  off  toward  the  door,  not  caring  to  go 
any  further  underground  at  present,  though  he  knew  there 
were  other  wonders  beyond.  He  reached  the  door  at  last, 
but  it  was  closed.  There  was  no  key-hole  even. 

After  looking  around  a  long  time  he  found  the  Fly- 


20  QUEER   STORIES. 


up-the-creek  fairy,  not  far  from  the  door,  sitting  by  a  fire, 
with  a  large,  old  owl  sitting  over  against  him. 

"  Give  me  the  key  to  the  door,  Ole  Ke-whack  !  "  said 
Bobby. 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  will  not  give  you  my  clothes,  ke- whack  ! 
Do  you  think  I  would  give  you  my  party  clothes  ?  If  you 
hadn't  sung  so  loud,  the  door  wouldn't  have  shut.  You 
scared  it.  Now  I  can't  give  you  my  fine  clothes,  and  so 
you'll  have  to  stay  here,  ke-whack !  " 

Poor  Bobby  sat  down  by  the  fire,  not  knowing  what 
to  do.  "  I  don't  want  to  stay  here,  Ke-whack  !  "  he 
whimpered. 

"  Tell  him  about  the  Sleepy-headed  People,"  said  the 
owl  to  Bobby,  solemnly. 

"  Shut  up,  old  man,  or  I'll  bite  your  head  off!  "  said 
the  Fly-up-the  creek  to  the  owl. 

"  Do  as  I  say,"  said  the  owl.  "  If  you  stay  here, 
you'll  turn  to  an  owl  or  a  bat.  Be  quick.  The  Sleepy 
heads  are  his  cousins  —  he  doesn't  like  to  hear  about 
them." 

"  Don't  mind  a  word  the  old  man  says,  ke-whack  !  " 

"  Give  me  the  key,  then,"  said  Bobby. 

"  Do  as  I  say,"  said  the  owl. 

The  Fly-up-the-creek  uttered  an  angry  "  ke-whack " 
and  tried  to  bite  off  the  owl's  head,  but  the  "old  man" 
hopped  out  of  his  way.  Bobby  began  to  tell  the  story  of 
his  adventures  among  the  Sleepy-heads,  and  the  stake- 


BOBBY   AND   THE   KEY-HOLE.  21 

driver  kept  crying,  "  Ke-whack  !  ke-whack  !  "  to  drown  his 
words  ;  but  as  Bobby's  shrill  voice  rose  higher  the  stake- 
driver's  voice  became  weaker  and  weaker.  Bobby  was 
so  amazed  that  he  stopped. 

"  Go  on  !  "  groaned  the  owl,  "  or  you'll  never  get  out, 
or  I  either." 

So  Bobby  kept  up  his  talk  until  the  stake-driver  was 
lying  senseless  on  the  floor. 

"  Put  the  key  in  the  lock,  quick,"  cried  the  owl. 

"Where  is  the  key?" 

"  His  fine  clothes.     Take  them  off,  quick  !    Cap  first !  " 

Bobby  began  with  the  cap,  then  stripped  off  the  coat 
and  vest  and  boots. 

"  Put  them  in  the  keyhole,  quick  !  "  said  the  owl,  for 
the  stake-driver  was  reviving. 

"  Where  is  the  key-hole  ?  " 

"  There  !  there  !  "  cried  the  owl,  pointing  to  the  fire. 
By  this  time  the  Fly-up-the-creek  had  already  begun  to 
reach  out  for  his  clothes,  which  Bobby  hastily  threw  into 
the  fire.  The  fire  went  out,  the  great  door  near  by 
swung  open,  and  the  big-eyed  owl,  followed  by  Bobby, 
walked  out,  saying,  "  I'm  free  at  last." 

Somehow,  in  the  daylight,  he  was  not  any  longer  an 
owl,  but  an  old  man  in  gray  clothes,  who  hobbled  off 
down  the  road. 

And  Bobby  looked  after  him  until  he  saw  the  stake- 
driver,  shorn  of  his  fine  clothes,  sweep  over  his  head  and 


22  QUEER   STORIES. 


go  flying  up  the  creek  again.  Then  he  turned  toward 
his  father's  cabin,  saying  : 

"Well,  I  never  !  Ef  that  haint  the  beatinest  thing  I 
ever  did  see  in  all  my  born'd  days." 

And  I  think  it  was. 


MR.    BLAKE'S   WALKING-STICK. 
I. 

THE   WALKING-STICK   WALKS. 

OOME  men  carry  canes.  Some  men  make  the  canes 
^  carry  them.  I  never  could  tell  just  what  Mr.  Blake 
carried  his  cane  for.  I  am  sure  it  did  not  often  feel  his 
weight.  For  he  was  neither  old,  nor  rich,  nor  lazy. 

He  was  a  tall,  straight  man,  who  walked  as  if  he  loved 
to  walk,  with  a  cheerful  tread  that  was  good  to  see.  I  am 
sure  he  didn't  carry  the  cane  for  show.  It  was  not  one  of 
those  little  sickly  yellow  things,  that  some  men  nurse  as 
tenderly  as  they  might  a  lapdog.  It  was  a  great  black 
stick  of  solid  ebony,  with  a  box-wood  head,  and  I  think 
Mr.  Blake  carried  it  for  company.  And  it  had  a  face,  like 
that  of  an  old  man,  carved  on  one  side  of  the  box-wood 
head.  Mr.  Blake  kept  it  ringing  in  a  hearty  way  upon 
the  pavement  as  he  walked,  and  the  boys  would  look  up 
from  their  marbles  when  they  heard  it,  and  say :  "  There 
comes  Mr.  Blake,  the  minister ! "  And  I  think  that 
nearly  every  invalid  and  poor  person  in  Thornton  knew 
the  cheerful  voice  of  the  minister's  stout  ebony  stick. 

It  was  a  clear,  crisp,  sunshiny  morning  in  December. 


24  QUEER   STORIES. 


The  leaves  were  all  gone,  and  the  long  lines  of  white  frame 
houses  that  were  hid  away  in  the  thick  trees  during  the 
summer,  showed  themselves  standing  in  straight  rows 
now  that  the  trees  were  bare.  And  Purser,  Pond  &  Co.'s 
great  factory  on  the  brook  in  the  valley  below  was  plainly 
to  be  seen,  with  its  long  rows  of  windows  shining  and 
shimmering  in  the  brilliant  sun,  and  its  brick  chimney 
reached  up  like  the  Tower  of  Babel,  and  poured  out  a 
steady  stream  of  dense,  black  smoke. 

It  was  just  such  a  shining  winter  morning.  Mr.  Blake 
and  his  walking-stick  were  just  starting  out  for  a  walk  to 
gether.  "  It's  a  fine  morning,"  thought  the  minister,  as 
he  shut  the  parsonage  gate.  And  when  he  struck  the 
cane  sharply  on  the  stones  it  answered  him  cheerily  : 
"  It's  a  fine  morning  !  "  The  cane  always  agreed  with 
Mr.  Blake.  So  they  were  able  to  walk  together,  according 
to  Scripture,  because  they  were  agreed. 

Just  as  he  came  round  the  corner  the  minister  found  a 
party  of  boys  waiting  for  him.  They  had  already  heard 
the  cane  remarking  that  it  was  a  fine  morning  before  Mr. 
Blake  came  in  sight. 

"  Good-morning  !  Mr.  Blake,"  said  the  three  boys. 

"  Good-morning,  my  boys  ;  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  said 
the  minister,  and  he  clapped  "  Old  Ebony"  down  on  the 
sidewalk,  and  it  said  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Mr.  Blake  !  "  said  Fred  White,  scratching  his  brown 
head  and  looking  a  little  puzzled.  "  Mr.  Blake,  if  it  ain't 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  25 

any  harm — if  you  don't  mind,  you  know,  telling  a  fellow, 

—a  boy,  I  mean "  Just  here  he  stopped  talking  ;  for 

though  he  kept  on  scratching  vigorously,  no  more  words 
would  come  ;  and  comical  Sammy  Bantam,  who  stood 
alongside,  whispered,  "  Keep  a-scratching,  Fred  ;  the  old 
cow  will  give  down  after  a  while  !  " 

Then  Fred  laughed,  and  the  other  boys,  and  the  min 
ister  laughed,  and  the  cane  could  do  nothing  but  stamp 
its  foot  in  amusement. 

"  Well,  Fred,"  said  the  minister,  "  what  is  it  ?  Speak 
out."  But  Fred  couldn't  speak  now  for  laughing,  and 
Sammy  had  to  do  the  talking  himself.  He  was  a  stumpy 
boy,  who  had  stopped  off  short  ;  and  you  couldn't  guess 
his  age,  because  his  face  was  so  much  older  than  his 
body. 

"  You  see,  Mr.  Blake,"  said  Sammy,  "  we  boys 
wanted  to  know — if  there  wasn't  any  harm  in  your  tell 
ing — why,  we  wanted  to  know  what  kind  of  a  thing  we 
are  going  to  have  on  Christmas  at  our  Sunday-school." 

"  Well,  boys,  I  don't  know  any  more  about  it  yet  than 
you  do.  The  teachers  will  talk  it  over  at  their  next  meet 
ing.  They  have  already  settled  some  things,  but  I  have 
not  heard  what  " 

"  I  hope  it  will  be  something  good  to  eat,"  said  Tom 
my  Puffer.  Tommy's  body  looked  for  all  the  world  like 
a  pudding-bag.  It  was  an  india-rubber  pudding-bag, 
though.  I  shouldn't  like  to  say  that  Tommy  was  a  glut- 


26  QUEER   STORIES. 


ton.  But  I  am  sure  that  no  boy  of  his  age  could  put  out 
of  sight,  in  the  same  space  of  time,  so  many  dough-nuts, 
ginger-snaps,  tea-cakes,  apple-dumplings,  pumpkin-pies, 
jelly-tarts,  puddings,  ice-creams,  raisins,  nuts,  and  other 
things  of  the  sort.  Other  people  stared  at  him  in  wonder. 
He  was  never  too  full  to  take  anything  that  was  offered 
him,  and  at  parties  his  weak  and  foolish  mother  was  al 
ways  getting  all  she  could  to  stuff  Tommy  with.  So 
when  Tommy  said  he  hoped  it  would  be  something  nice 
to  eat,  and  rolled  his  soft  lips  about,  as  though  he  had  a 
cream-tart  in  his  mouth,  all  the  boys  laughed,  and  Mr. 
Blake  smiled.  I  think  even  the  cane  would  have  smiled 
if  it  had  thought  it  polite. 

"'  I  hope  it'll  be  something  pleasant,"  said  Fred 
Welch. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  stumpy  little  Tommy  Bantam. 

"  So  do  I,  boys,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  as  he  turned  away  ; 
and  all  the  way  down  the  block  Old  Ebony  kept  calling 
back,  "  So  do  I,  boys  !  so  do  I  !  " 

Mr.  Blake  and  his  friend  the  cane  kept  on  down  the 
street,  until  they  stood  in  front  of  a  building  that  was 
called  "  The  Yellow  Row."  It  was  a  long,  two-story 
frame  building,  that  had  once  been  inhabited  by  genteel 
people.  Why  they  ever  built  it  in  that  shape,  or  why 
they  daubed  it  with  yellow  paint,  is  more  than  I  can  tell. 
But  it  had  gone  out  of  fashion,  and  now  it  was,  as  the 
boys  expressed  it,  "  seedy."  Old  hats  and  old  clothes 


filled  many  of  the  places  once  filled  by  glass.     Into  one 
room  of  this  row  Mr.  Blake  entered,  saying  : 

"  How  are  you,  Aunt  Parm'ly  ?  " 

"  Howd'y,  Mr.  Blake,  howd'y  !  I  know'd  you  was 
a-comin',  honey,  fer  I  hyeard  the  sound  of  yer  cane  afore 
you  come  in.  I'm  mis'able  these  yer  days,  thank  you. 
I'se  got  a  headache,  an'  a  backache,  and  a  toothache  in 
de  boot." 

I  suppose  the  poor  old  colored  woman  meant  to  say 
that  she  had  a  toothache  "  to  boot." 

"  You  see,  Mr.  Blake,  Jane's  got  a  little  sumpin  to  do 
now,  and  we  can  git  bread  enough,  thank  the  Lord,  but 
as  fer  coal,  that's  the  hardest  of  all.  We  has  to  buy  it  by 
the  bucketful,  and  that's  mighty  high  at  fifteen  cents  a 
bucket.  An'  pears  like  we  couldn't  never  git  nothin'  a- 
head  on  account  of  my  roomatiz.  Where  de  coal's  to 
come  from  dis  ere  winter  I  don't  know,  cep  de  good  Lord 
sends  it  down  out  of  the  sky ;  and  I  reckon  stone-coal 
don't  never  come  dat  dar  road." 

After  some  more  talk,  Mr.  Blake  went  in  to  see  Peter 
Sitles,  the  blind  broom-maker. 

"  I  hyeard  yer  stick,  preacher  Blake,"  said  Sitles. 
"That  air  stick  o*  yourn's  better'n  a  whole  rigimint  of 
doctors  fer  the  blues.  An'  I've  been  a-havin'  on  the 
blues  powerful  bad,  Mr.  Blake,  these  yer  last  few  days. 
I  remembered  what  you  was  a- say  ing  the  last  time  you 
was  here,  about  trustin'  of  the  good  Lord.  But  I've  had 


28  QUEER   STORIES. 


a  purty  consid'able  heartache  under  my  jacket  fer  all  that. 
Now,  there's  that  Ben  of  mine,"  and  here  Sitles  pointed 
to  a  restless  little  fellow  of  nine  years  old,  whose  pants 
had  been  patched  and  pieced  until  they  had  more  col 
ors  than  Joseph's  coat.  He  was  barefoot,  ragged,  and 
looked  hungry,  as  some  poor  children  always  do.  Their 
minds  seem  hungrier  than  their  bodies.  He  was  rocking 
a  baby  in  an  old  cradle.  "  There's  Ben,"  continued  the 
blind  man,  "  he's  as  peart  a  boy  as  you  ever  see,  preacher 
Blake,  ef  I  do  say  it  as  hadn't  orter  say  it.  Bennie  hain't 
got  no  clothes.  I  can't  beg.  But  Ben  orter  be  in  school." 
Here  Peter  Sitles  choked  a  little. 

"  How's  broom-making  Peter?  "  said  the  minister. 

"  Well,  you  see,  it's  the  machines  as  is  a-spoiling  us. 
The  machines  makes  brooms  cheap,  and  what  can  a  blind 
feller  like  me  do  agin  the  machines  with  nothing  but  my 
fingers  ?  'Tain't  no  sort  o'  use  to  butt  my  head  agin  the 
machines,  when  I  ain't  got  no  eyes  nother.  It's  like  a 
goat  trying  it  on  a  locomotive.  Ef  I  could  only  ed- 
dicate  Peter  and  the  other  two,  I'd  be  satisfied.  You 
see,  I  never  had  no  book-larnin'  myself,  and  I  can't  talk 
proper  no  more'n  a  cow  can  climb  a  tree." 

"  But,  Mr.  Sitles,  how  much  would  a  broom-machine 
cost  you  ?  "  asked  the  minister. 

"  More'n  it's  any  use  to  think  on.  It'll  cost  seventy 
dollars,  and  if  it  cost  seventy  cents  'twould  be  jest  exactly 
seventy  cents  more'n  I  could  afford  to  pay.  For  the 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  29 

money  my  ole  woman  gits  fer  washin'  don't  go  noways 
at  all  towards  feedin'  the  four  children,  let  alone  buying 
me  a  machine." 

The  minister  looked  at  his  cane,  but  it  did  not  answer 
him.  Something  must  be  done.  The  minister  was  sure 
of  that.  Perhaps  the  walking-stick  was,  too.  But  what  ? 

That  was  the  question. 

The  minister  told  Sitles  good-by,  and  started  to  make 
other  visits.  And  on  the  way  the  cane  kept  crying  out, 
"  Something  must  be  done — something  MUST  be  done — 
something  MUST  be  done,"  making  the  must  ring  out 
sharper  every  time.  When  Mr.  Blake  and  the  walking- 
stick  got  to  the  market-house,  just  as  they  turned  off  from 
Milk  Street  into  the  busier  Main  Street,  the  cane  changed 
its  tune  and  begun  to  say,  "  But  what — but  what — but 
WHAT— but  WHAT,"  until  it  said  it  so  sharply  that  the 
minister's  head  ached,  and  he  put  Old  Ebony  under  his 
arm,  so  that  it  couldn't  talk  any  more.  It  was  a  way  he 
had  of  hushing  it  up  when  he  wanted  to  think. 

II. 

LONG-HEADED   WILLIE. 

"  DE  biskits  is  cold,  and  de  steaks  is  cold  as — as — ice, 
and  dinner's  spiled  !  "  said  Curlypate,  a  girl  about  three 
years  old,  as  Mr.  Blake  came  in  from  his  forenoon  of  visit 
ing.  She  tried  to  look  very  much  vexed  and  "  put  out," 


30  QUEER   STORIES. 


but  there  was  always  either  a  smile  or  a  cry  hidden  away 
in  her  dimpled  cheek. 

"  Pshaw  !  Curlypate,"  said  Mr.  Blake  as  he  put  down 
his  cane,  "  you  don't  scold  worth  a  cent  !  "  And  he  lifted 
her  up  and  kissed  her. 

And  then  Mamma  Blake  smiled,  and  they  all  sat  down 
to  the  table.  While  they  ate,  Mr.  Blake  told  about  his 
morning  visits,  and  spoke  of  Parm'ly  without  coal,  and 
Peter  Sitles  with  no  broom-machine,  and  described  little 
Ben  Sitles'  hungry  face,  and  told  how  he  had  visited  the 
widow  Martin,  who  had  no  sewing-machine,  and  who  had 
to  receive  help  from  the  overseer  of  the  poor.  The  over 
seer  told  her  that  she  must  bind  out  her  daughter,  twelve 
years  old,  and  her  boy  of  ten,  if  she  expected  to  have  any 
help  ;  and  the  mother's  heart  was  just  about  broken  at 
the  thought  of  losing  her  children. 

Now,  while  all  this  was  taking  place,  Willie  Blake,  the 
minister's  son,  a  boy  about  thirteen  years  of  age,  sat  by 
the  big  porcelain  water-pitcher,  listening  to  all  that  was 
said.  His  deep  blue  eyes  looked  past  the  pitcher  at  his 
father,  then  at  his  mother,  taking  in  all  their  descriptions 
of  poverty  with  a  wondrous  pitifulness.  But  he  did  not 
say  much.  What  went  on  in  his  long  head  I  do  not 
know,  for  his  was  one  of  those  heads  that  projected  for 
ward  and  backward,  and  the  top  of  which  overhung  the 
base,  for  all  the  world  like  a  load  of  hay.  Now  and 
then  his  mother  looked  at  him,  as  if  she  would  like  to 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  31 

see  through  and  read  his  thoughts.  But  I  think  she 
didn't  see  anything  but  the  straight,  silken,  fine,  flossy 
hair,  silvery  white,  touched  a  little  bit — only  a  little — as 
he  turned  it  in  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  with  a  tinge 
of  what  people  call  a  golden,  but  what  is  really  a  sort  of 
a  pleasant  straw  colon  He  usually  talked,  and  asked 
questions,  and  laughed  like  other  boys  ;  but  now  he 
seemed  to  be  swallowing  the  words  of  his  father -and 
mother  more  rapidly  even  than  he  did  his  dinner  ;  for,  like 
most  boys,  he  ate  as  if  it  were  a  great  waste  of  time  to 
eat.  But  when  he  was  done  he  did  not  hurry  off  as 
eagerly  as  usual  to  reading  or  to  play.  He  sat  and 
listened. 

"  What  makes  you  look  so  sober,  Willie  ?  "  asked 
Helen,  his  sister. 

"  What  you  thinkin',  Willie  ?  "  said  Curlypate,  peer 
ing  through  the  pitcher  handle  at  him. 

"  Willie,"  broke  in  his  father,  "  mamma  and  I  are  go 
ing  to  a  wedding  out  at  Sugar  Hill — 

"  Sugar  Hill  ;  O  my  !  "  broke  in  Curlypate. 

"  Out  at  Sugar  Hill,"  continued  Mr.  Blake,  stroking 
the  Curlypate,  "and  as  I  have  some  calls  to  make,  we 
shall  not  be  back  till  bedtime.  I  am  sorry  to  keep  you 
from  your  play  this  Saturday  afternoon,  but  we  have  no 
other  housekeeper  but  you  and  Helen.  See  that  the 
children  get  their  suppers  early,  and  be  careful  about 
fire." 


32  QUEER   STORIES. 


I  believe  to  "  be  careful  about  fire  "  is  the  last  com 
mand  that  every  parent  gives  to  children  on  leaving  them 
alone. 

Now  I  know  that  people  who  write  stories  are  very 
careful  nowadays  not  to  make  their  boys  too  good.  I 
suppose  that  I  ought  to  represent  Willie  as  "  taking  on  " 
a  good  deal  when  he  found  that  he  couldn't  play  all  Satur 
day  afternoon,  as  he  had  expected.  But  I  shall  not.  For 
one  thing,  at  least,  in  my  story,  is  true  ;  that  is,  Willie. 
If  I  tell  you  that  he  is  good  you  may  believe  it.  I  have 
seen  him. 

He  only  said,  "Yes,  sir." 

Mrs.  Blake  did  not  keep  a  girl.  The  minister  did  not 
get  a  small  fortune  of  a  salary.  So  it  happened  that 
Willie  knew  pretty  well  how  to  keep  house.  He  was  a 
good  brave  boy,  never  ashamed  to  help  his  mother  in  a 
right  manly  way.  He  could  wash  dishes  and  milk  the 
cow,  and  often,  when  mamma  had  a  sick-headache,  had 
he  gotten  a  good  breakfast,  never  forgetting  tea  and  toast 
for  the  invalid. 

So  Sancho,  the  Canadian  pony,  was  harnessed  to  the 
minister's  rusty  buggy,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blake  got  in 
and  told  the  children  good-by.  Then  Sancho  started 
off,  and  had  gone  about  ten  steps,  when  he  was  sud 
denly  reined  up  with  a  "  Whoa  !  " 

-Willie!"  said  Mr.  Blake. 

"Sir." 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  33 

11  Be  careful  about  fire." 

"Yes,  sir." 

And  then  old  blackey-brown  Sancho  moved  on  in  a 
gentle  trot,  and  Willie  and  Helen  and  Richard  went  into 
the  house,  where  Curlypate  had  already  gone,  and  where 
they  found  her  on  tiptoe,  with  her  short  little  fingers  in 
the  sugar-bowl,  trying  in  vain  to  find  a  lump  that  would 
not  go  to  pieces  in  the  vigorous  squeeze  that  she  gave 
in  her  desire  to  make  sure  of  it. 

So  Willie  washed  the  dishes,  while  Helen  wiped  them, 
and  Richard  put  them  away,  and  they  had  a  merry  time, 
though  Willie  had  to  soothe  several  rising  disputes  be 
tween  Helen  and  Richard.  Then  a  glorious  lot  of  wood 
was  gotten  in,  and  Helen  came  near  sweeping  a  hole  in 
the  carpet  in  her  eager  desire  to  "  surprise  mamma." 
Curlypate  went  in  the  parlor  and  piled  things  up  in  a 
wonderful  way,  declaring  that  she,  too,  was  going  to 
"  susprise  mamma."  And  doubtless  mamma  would  have 
felt  no  little  surprise  if  she  could  have  seen  the  parlor 
after  Curlypate  "  put  it  to  rights." 

Later  in  the  evening  the  cow  was  milked,  and  a  plaiq 
supper  of  bread  and  milk  eaten.  Then  Richard  and  fur- 
lypate  were  put  away  for  the  night.  And  presently 
Helen,  who  was  bravely  determined  to  keep  Willie  com 
pany,  found  her  head  trying  to  drop  off  her  shoulders, 
and  so  she  had  to  give  up  to  the  "  san4  man,"  and  go  to 
bed. 

3 


34  QUEER   STORIES. 


III. 
THE   WALKING-STICK   A   TALKING   STICK. 

WILLIE  was  now  all  by  himself.  He  put  on  more 
wood,  and  drew  the  rocking-chair  up  by  the  fire,  and  lay 
back  in  it.  It  was  very  still ;  he  could  hear  every  mouse 
that  moved.  The  stillness  seemed  to  settle  clear  down 
to  his  heart.  Presently  a  wagon  went  clattering  by. 
Then,  as  the  sound  died  away  in  the  distance,  it  seemed 
stiller  than  ever.  Willie  tried  to  sleep  ;  but  he  couldn't. 
He  kept  listening  ;  and  after  all  he  was  listening  to  noth 
ing  ;  nothing  but  that  awful  clock,  that  would  keep  up 
such  a  tick-tick,  tick-tick,  tick-tick.  The  curtains  were 
down,  and  Willie  didn't  dare  to  raise  them,  or  to  peep 
out.  He  could  feel  how  dark  it  was  out  doors. 

But  presently  he  forgot  the  stillness.  He  fell  to  think 
ing  of  what  his  father  had  said  at  dinner.  He  thought 
of  poor  old  rheumatic  Parm'ly,  and  her  single  bucket  of 
coal  at  a  time.  He  thought  of  the  blind  broom-maker 
who  needed  a  broom-machine,  and  of  the  poor  widow 
whose  children  must  be  taken  away  because  the  mother 
had  no  sewing-machine.  All  of  these  thoughts  made  the 
night  seem  dark,  and  they  made  Willie's  heart  heavy. 
But  the  thoughts  kept  him  company. 

Then  he  wished  he  was  rich,  and  he  thought  if  he  were 
as  rich  as  Captain  Purser,  who  owned  the  mill,  he  would 


MR.    BLAKE  S   WALKING-STICK.  35 

give  away  sewing-machines  to  all  poor  widows  who 
needed  them.  But  pshaw  !  what  was  the  use  of  wishing  ? 
His  threadbare  pantaloons  told  him  how  far  off  he  was 
from  being  rich. 

But  he  would  go  to  the  Polytechnic  ;  he  would  become 
a  civil  engineer.  He  would  make  a  fortune  some  day 
when  he  became  celebrated.  Then  he  would  give  Widow 
Martin  a  sewing-machine.  This  was  the  nice  castle  in 
the  air  that  Willie  built.  But  just  as  he  put  on  the  last 
stone  a  single  thought  knocked  it  down. 

What  would  become  of  the  widow  and  her  children 
while  he  was  learning  to  be  an  engineer  and  making  a 
fortune  afterward  ?  And  where  would  he  get  the  money 
to  go  to  the  Polytechnic  ?  This  last  question  Willie  had 
asked  every  day  for  a  year  or  two  past. 

Unable  to  solve  this  problem,  his  head  grew  tired,  and 
he  lay  down  on  the  lounge,  saying  to  himself,  "  Some 
thing  must  be  done  !  " 

"  Something  must  be  done  !  "  Willie  was  sure  some 
body  spoke.  He  looked  around.  There  was  nobody  in 
the  room. 

"  Something  must  be  done  !  "  This  time  he  saw  in 
the  corner  of  the  room,  barely  visible  in  the  shadow,  his 
father's  cane.  The  voice  seemed  to  come  from  that  corner. 

"  Something  MUST  be  done  !  "  Yes,  it  was  the  cane. 
He  could  see  its  head,  and  the  face  on  one  side  was 
toward  him.  How  bright  its  eyes  were  !  It  did  not 


36  QUEER   STORIES. 


occur  to  Willie  just  then  that  there  was  anything  surpris 
ing  in  the  fact  that  the  walking-stick  had  all  at  once  be 
come  a  talking  stick. 

"  Something  MUST  be  done  !  "  said  the  cane,  lifting 
its  one  foot  up  and  bringing  it  down  with  emphasis  at  the 
word  must.  Willie  felt  pleased  that  the  little  old  man — I 
mean  the  walking-stick — should  come  to  his  help. 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  said  Old  Ebony,  hopping  out  of 
his  shady  corner;  "  I  tell  you  what,"  it  said,  and  then 
stopped  as  if  to  reflect;  then  finished  by  saying,  "  It's  a 
shame  !  " 

Willie  was  about  to  ask  the  cane  to  what  he  referred, 
but  he  thought  best  to  wait  till  Old  Ebony  got  ready  to 
tell  of  his  own  accord.  But  the  walking-stick  did  not 
think  best  to  answer  immediately,  but  took  entirely -a 
new  and  surprising  track.  It  actually  went  to  quoting 
Scripture  ! 

"  My  eyes  are  dim,"  said  the  cane,  "  and  I  never  had 
much  learning ;  canes  weren't  sent  to  school  when  I  was 
young.  Won't  you  read  the  thirty-fifth  verse  of  the 
twentieth  chapter  of  Acts." 

Willie  turned  to  the  stand  and  saw  the  Bible  open  at 
that  verse.  He  did  not  feel  surprised.  It  seemed  natural 
enough  to  him.  He  read  the  verse,  not  aloud,  but  to 
himself,  for  Old  Ebony  seemed  to  hear  his  thoughts.  He 
read  : 

"  Ye  ought  to  support   the   weak,  and  to   remember 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  37 

the  words  of  the  Lord  Jesus,  how  he  said,  It  is  more 
blessed  to  give  than  to  receive." 

"Now,"  said  the  walking-stick,  stepping  or  hopping 
up  toward  the  lounge  and  leaning  thoughtfully  over  the 
head  of  it,  "  Now,  I  say  that  it  is  a  shame  that  when  the 
birthday  of  that  Lord  Jesus,  who  said  it  is  more  blessed 
to  give  than  to  receive,  comes  round,  all  of  you  Sunday- 
school  scholars  are  thinking  only  of  what  you  are  going 
to  get." 

Willie  was  about  to  say  that  they  gave  as  well  as  re 
ceived  on  Christmas,  and  that  his  class  had  already  raised 
the  money  to  buy  a  Bible  Dictionary  for  their  teacher. 
But  Old  Ebony  seemed  to  guess  his  thought,  and  he  only 
said,  "  And  that's  another  shame  !  " 

Willie  couldn't  see  how  this  could  be,  and  he  thought 
the  walking-stick  was  using  very  strong  language  indeed. 
I  think  myself  the  cane  spoke  too  sharply,  for  I  don't 
think  the  harm  lies  in  giving  to  and  receiving  from  our 
friends,  but  in  neglecting  the  poor.  But  you  don't  care 
what  I  think,  you  want  to  know  what  the  cane  said. 

"  I'm  pretty  well  acquainted  with  Scripture,"  said  Old 
Ebony,  "  having  spent  fourteen  years  in  company  with  a 
minister.  Now  won't  you  please  read  the  twelfth  and 
thirteenth  verses  of  the  fourteenth  chapter  of— 

But  before  the  cane  could  finish  the  sentence,  Willie 
heard  some  one  opening  the  door.  It  was  his  father. 
He  looked  round  in  bewilderment.  The  oil  in  the  lamp 


38  QUEER   STORIES. 


had  burned  out,  and  it  was  dark.  The  fire  was  low,  and 
the  room  chilly. 

"  Heigh-ho,  Willie,  my  son,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  "where's 
your  light,  and  where's  your  fire.  This  is  a  cold  recep 
tion.  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  Listening  to  the  cane  talk,''  he  replied  ;  and  think 
ing  what  a  foolish  answer  that  was,  he  put  on  some  more 
coal,  while  his  mother,  who  was  lighting  the  lamp,  said 
he  must  have  been  dreaming.  The  walking-stick  stood 
in  its  corner,  face  to  the  wall,  as  if  it  had  never  been  a 
talking  stick. 

IV. 

MR.   BLAKE   AGREES   WITH   THE   WALKING-STICK. 

EARLY  on  Sunday  morning  Willie  awoke  and  began 
to  think  about  Sitles,  and  to  wish  he  had  money  to  buy 
him  a  broom-machine.  And  then  he  thought  of  widow 
Martin.  But  all  his  thinking  would  do  no  good.  Then 
he  thought  of  what  Old  Ebony  had  said,  and  he  wished 
he  could  know  what  that  text  was  that  the  cane  was  just 
going  to  quote. 

"It  was,"  said  Willie,  "the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
verses  of  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  something.  I'll  see." 

So  he  began  with  the  beginning  of  the  Bible,  and 
looked  first  at  Genesis  xiv.  12,  13.  But  it  was  about  the 
time  when  Abraham  had  heard  of  the  capture  of  Lot  and 


MR.    BLAKE  S   WALKING-STICK.  39 

mustered  his  army  to  recapture  him.  He  thought  a  min 
ute. 

"  That  can't  be  what  it  is,"  said  Willie,  "  I'll  look  at 
Exodus." 

In  Exodus  it  was  about  standing  still  at  the  Red  Sea 
and  waiting  for  God's  salvation.  It  might  mean  that 
God  would  deliver  the  poor.  But  that  was  not  just 
what  the  cane  was  talking  about.  It  was  about  giving 
gifts  to  friends.  So  he  went  on  to  Leviticus.  But  it  was 
about  the  wave-offering,  and  the  sin-offering,  and  the 
burnt-offering.  That  was  not  it,  and  so  he  went  from 
book  to  book  until  he  had  reached  the  twelfth  and  thir 
teenth  verses  of  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  the  book  of 
Judges.  He  was  just  reading  in  that  place  about  Sam 
son's  riddle,  when  his  mamma  called  him  to  break 
fast. 

He  was  afraid  to  say  anything  about  it  at  the  table  for 
fear  of  being  laughed  at.  But  he  was  full  of  what  the 
walking-stick  said.  And  at  family  worship  his  father  read 
the  twentieth  chapter  of  Acts.  When  he  came  to  the 
part  about  its  being  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive, 
Willie  said,  "  That's  what  the  cane  said." 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  asked  his  father. 

"  I  was  only  thinking  out  loud,"  said  Willie. 

"  Don't  think  out  loud  while  I  am  reading,"  said  Mr. 
Blake. 

Willie  did  not   find  time  to  look  any  further  for  the 


40  QUEER   STORIES. 


other  verses.  He  wished  his  father  had  happened  on 
them  instead  of  the  first  text  which  the  cane  quoted. 

In  church  he  kept  thinking  all  the  time  about  the 
cane.  "Now  what  could  it  mean  by  the  twelfth  and 
thirteenth  verses  of  the  fourteenth  chapter?  There  isn't 
anything  in  the  Bible  against  giving  away  presents  to 
one's  friends.  It  was  only  a  dream  anyhow,  and  maybe 
there's  nothing  in  it." 

But  he  forgot  the  services,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  in  his 
thoughts.  At  last  Mr.  Blake  arose  to  read  his  text. 
Willie  looked  at  him,  but  thought  of  what  the  cane  said. 
But  what  was  it  that  attracted  his  attention  so  quickly  ? 

"  The  twelfth  and  thirteenth  verses " 

"  Twelfth  and  thirteenth  !  "  said  Willie  to  himself. 

"  Of  the  fourteenth  chapter,"  said  the  minister. 

"  Fourteenth  chapter  !  "  said  Willie,  almost  aloud. 

"Of  Luke." 

Willie  was  all  ears,  while  Mr.  Blake  read  :  "  Then  said 
he  also  to  him  that  bade  him,  When  thou  makest  a  din 
ner  or  a  supper,  call  not  thy  friends,  nor  thy  brethren, 
neither  thy  kinsmen,  nor  thy  rich  neighbors,  lest  they 
also  bid  thee  again,  and  a  recompense  be  made  thee. 
But  when  thou  makest  a  feast,  call  the  poor,  the  maimed, 
the  lame,  the  blind." 

"That's  it!"  he  said,  half  aloud,  but  his  mother 
jogged  him. 

Willie  had  never  listened  to  a  sermon  as  he  did  to  that. 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  41 

He  stopped  two  or  three  times  to  wonder  whether  the 
cane  had  been  actually  about  to  repeat  his  father's  text  to 
him,  or  whether  he  had  not  heard  his  father  repeat  it  at 
some  time,  and  had  dreamed  about  it. 

I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  much  about  Mr.  Blake's 
sermon.  It  was  a  sermon  that  he  and  the  walking-stick 
had  prepared  while  they  were  going  round  among  the 
poor.  I  think  Mr.  Blake  did  not  strike  his  cane  down  on 
the  sidewalk  for  nothing.  Most  of  that  sermon  must  have 
been  hammered  out  in  that  way,  when  he  and  the  walking- 
stick  were  saying,  "  Something  must  be  done  !  "  For 
that  was  just  what  that  sermon  said.  It  told  about  the 
wrong  of  forgetting,  on  the  birthday  of  Christ,  to  do  any 
thing  for  the  poor.  It  made  everybody  think.  But  Mr. 
Blake  did  not  know  how  much  of  that  sermon  went  into 
Willie  Blake's  long  head,  as  he  sat  there  with  his  white 
full  forehead  turned  up  to  his  father. 

V. 

THE    FATHER  PREACHES  AND   THE   SON  PRACTISES. 

THAT  afternoon  Willie  was  at  Sunday-school  long  be 
fore  the  time.  He  had  a  plan. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  boys,"  said  he,  "let's  not  give 
Mr.  Marble  anything  this  year  ;  and  let's  ask  him  not  to 
give  us  anything.  Let's  get  him  to  put  the  money  he 
would  use  for  us  with  the  money  we  should  spend  on  a 


42  QUEER   STORIES. 


present  for  him,  and  give  it  to  buy  coal  for  old  Aunt 
Parm'ly." 

"  I  mean  to  spend  all  my  money  on  soft  gum-drops 
and  tarts,"  said  Tommy  Puffer;  "they're  splendid!" 
and  with  that  he  began,  as  usual,  to  roll  his  soft  lips  to 
gether  in  a  half-chewing,  half-sucking  manner,  as  if  he 
had  a  half  dozen  cream-tarts  under  his  tongue,  and  two 
dozen  gum-drops  in  his  cheeks. 

"  Tommy,"  said  stumpy  little  Sammy  Bantam,  "  it's  a 
good  thing  you  didn't  live  in  Egypt,  Tommy,  in  the  days 
of  Joseph." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Tommy. 

"Because,"  said  Sammy,  looking  around  the  room 
absently,  as  if  he  hardly  knew  what  he  was  going  to  say, 
"  because,  you  see" — and  then  he  opened  a  book  and 
began  to  read,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  to  finish  the  sen 
tence. 

"  Well,  why  ?  "  demanded  Tommy,  sharply. 

"  Well,  because  if  Joseph  had  had  to  feed  you  during 
the  seven  years  of  plenty,  there  wouldn't  have  been  a 
morsel  left  for  the  years  of  famine  !  " 

The  boys  laughed  as  boys  will  at  a  good  shot,  and 
Tommy  reddened  a  little  and  said,  regretfully,  that  he 
guessed  the  Egyptians  hadn't  any  doughnuts. 

Willie  did  not  forget  his  main  purpose,  but  carried  the 
point  in  his  own  class.  He  still  had  time  to  speak  to 
some  of  the  boys  and  girls  in  other  classes.  Everybody 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  43 

liked  to  do  what  Willie  asked  ;  there  was  something  sweet 
and  strong  in  his  blue  eyes,  eyes  that  "  did  not  seem  to 
have  any  bottom,  they  were  so  deep,"  one  of  the  girls 
said.  Soon  there  was  an  excitement  in  the  school,  and 
about  the  door ;  girls  and  boys  talking  and  discussing, 
but  as  soon  as  any  opposition  came  up  Willie's  half-coax 
ing  but  decided  way  bore  it  down.  I  think  he  was  much 
helped  by  Sammy's  wit,  which  was  all  on  his  side.  It 
was  agreed,  finally,  that  whatever  scholars  meant  to  give 
to  teachers,  or  teachers  to  scholars,  should  go  to  the 
poor. 

The  teachers  caught  the  enthusiasm,  and  were  very 
much  in  favor  of  the  project,  for  in  the  whole  movement 
they  saw  the  fruit  of  their  own  teaching. 

The  superintendent  had  been  detained,  and  was  sur 
prised  to  find  the  school  standing  in  knots  about  the 
room.  He  soon  called  them  to  order,  and  expressed  his 
regrets  that  they  should  get  into  such  disorder.  There 
was  a  smile  on  all  faces,  and  he  saw  that  there  was  some 
thing  more  in  the  apparent  disorder  than  he  thought. 
After  school  it  was  fixed  that  each  class  should  find  its 
own  case  of  poverty.  The  young  men's  and  the  young 
women's  Bible  classes  undertook  to  supply  Sitles  with  a 
broom-machine,  a  class  of  girls  took  Aunt  Parm'ly  under 
their  wing,  other  classes  knew  of  other  cases  of  need,  and 
so  each  class  had  its  hands  full.  But  Willie  could  not  get 
any  class  to  see  that  Widow  Martin  had  a  sewing-machine. 


44  QUEER   STORIES. 


That  was  left   for  his  own  ;  and  how  should  a  class  of 
eight  boys  do  it  ? 

VI. 

SIXTY-FIVE  DOLLARS. 

WILLIE  took  the  boys  into  the  parsonage.  They  fig 
ured  on  it.  There  were  sixty-five  dollars  to  be  raised  to 
buy  the  machine.  The  seven  boys  were  together,  for 
Tommy  Puffer  had  gone  home.  He  said  he  didn't  feel 
like  staying,  and  Sammy  Bantam  thought  he  must  be 
a  little  hungry. 

Willie  attacked  the  problem — sixty-five  dollars.  To 
ward  that  amount  they  had  three  dollars  and  a  half  that 
they  had  intended  to  spend  on  a  present  for  Mr.  Marble. 
That  left  just  sixty-one  dollars  and  fifty  cents  to  be  raised. 
Willie  ran  across  the  street  and  brought  Mr.  Marble.  He 
said  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  give  the  boys  a  book 
apiece,  and  that  each  book  would  cost  a  dollar.  It  was 
rather  more  than  he  could  well  afford  ;  but  as  he  had  in 
tended  to  give  eight  dollars  for  their  presents,  and  as  he 
was  pleased  with  their  unselfish  behavior,  he  would  make 
it  ten. 

"  Good  !  "  said  Charley  Somerset,  who  always  saw  the 
bright  side  of  things,  "  that  makes  it  all,  except  fifty-one 
dollars  and  a  half." 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  45 

"  Yes,"  said  Sammy  Bantam,  "  and  you're  eleven  feet 
high,  lacking  a  couple  of  yards  !  " 

Willie  next  called  his  father  in,  and  inquired  how  much 
his  Christmas  present  was  to  cost. 

"  Three  and  a  half,"  said  his  father. 

"  That's  a  lot  !  Will  you  give  me  the  money  in 
stead  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  meant  to  give  you  a  Life  of  George 
Stephenson,  and  some  other  books  on  engineering." 

This  made  Willie  think  a  moment ;  but  seeing  the 
walking-stick  in  the  corner,  he  said  :  "  Mrs.  Martin  must 
have  a  machine,  and  that  three  and  a  half  makes  seventeen 
dollars.  How  to  get  the  other  forty-eight  is  the  question." 

Mr.  Blake  and  Mr.  Marble  both  agreed  that  the  boys 
could  not  raise  so  much  money,  and  should  not  under 
take  it.  But  Willie  said  there  was  nobody  to  do  it,  and 
he  guessed  it  would  come  somehow.  The  other  boys, 
when  they  came  to  church  that  evening,  told  Willie  that 
their  presents  were  commuted  for  money  also ;  so  they  had 
twenty-five  dollars  toward  the  amount.  But  that  was  the 
end  of  it,  and  there  were  forty  dollars  yet  to  come  ! 

Willie  lay  awake  that  night,  thinking.  Mr.  Marble's 
class  could  not  raise  the  money.  All  the  other  classes 
had  given  all  they  could.  And  the  teachers  would  each 
give  in  their  classes.  And  they  had  raised  all  they  could 
spare  besides  to  buy  nuts  and  candy  !  Good  !  That  was 
just  it  ;  they  would  do  without  candy  ! 


46  QUEER   STORIES. 


At  school  the  next  morning,  Willie's  white  head  was 
bobbing  about  eagerly.  He  made  every  boy  and  girl 
sign  a  petition,  asking  the  Sunday-school  teachers  not  to 
give  them  any  nuts  or  candy.  They  all  signed  except 
Tommy  Puffer.  He  said  it  was  real  mean  not  to  have  any 
candy.  They  might  just  as  well  not  have  any  Sunday- 
school,  or  any  Christmas  either.  But  seeing  a  naughty 
twinkle  in  Sammy  Bantam's  eye,  he  waddled  away,  while 
Sammy  fired  a  shot  after  him,  by  remarking  that,  if 
Tommy  had  been  one  of  the  shepherds  in  Bethlehem,  he 
wouldn't  have  listened  to  the  angels  till  he  had  inquired 
if  they  had  any  lemon-drops  in  their  pockets  ! 

That  night  the  extra  Teachers'  Meeting  was  held, 
and  in  walked  white-headed  Willie  with  stunted  Sammy 
Bantam  at  his  heels  to  keep  him  in  countenance.  When 
their  petition  was  presented,  Miss  Belden,  who  sat  near 
Willie,  said,  "  Well  done  !  Willie." 

"'  But  I  protest,"  said  Mrs.  Puffer — who  was  of  about 
as  handsome  a  figure  as  her  son — "  I  protest  against  such 
an  outrage  on  the  children.  My  Tommy's  been  a-feeling 
bad  about  it  all  day.  It'll  break  his  heart  if  he  don't  get 
some  candy." 

Willie  was  shy,  but  for  a  moment  he  forgot  it,  and, 
turning  his  intelligent  blue  eyes  on  Mrs.  Puffer,  he  said — 

"  It  will  break  Mrs.  Martin's  heart  if  her  children  are 
taken  away  from  her." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Puffer,  "  I  always  did  hear  that  the 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  47 


preacher's  boy  was  the  worst  in  the  parish,  and  I  won't 
take  any  impudence.  My  son  will  join  the  Mission 
School,  where  they  aren't  too  stingy  to  give  him  a  bit  of 
candy  !  "  And  Mrs.  Puffer  left,  and  everybody  was 
pleased. 

Willie  got  the  money ;  but  the  teachers  had  counted 
on  making  up  their  festival  mostly  with  cakes  and  other 
dainties,  contributed  by  families.  So  that  the  candy 
money  was  only  sixteen  dollars,  and  Willie  was  yet  a  long 
way  off  from  having  the  amount  he  needed.  Twenty- 
four  dollars  were  yet  wanting. 

VII. 
THE  WIDOW  AND  THE  FATHERLESS. 

THE  husband  of  Widow  Martin  had  been  killed  by  a 
railroad  accident.  The  family  were  very  poor.  Mrs. 
Martin  could  sew,  and  she  could  have  sustained  her 
family  if  she  had  had  a  machine.  But  fingers  are  not 
worth  much  against  iron  wheels.  And  so,  while  others 
had  machines,  Mrs.  Martin  could  not  make  much  without 
one.  She  had  been  obliged  to  ask  help  from  the  overseer 
of  the  poor. 

Mr.  Lampeer,  the  overseer,  was  a  hard  man.  He  had 
not  skill  enough  to  detect  impostors,  and  so  he  had  come 
to  believe  that  everybody  who  was  poor  was  rascally. 


48  QUEER  STORIES. 


He  had  but  one  eye,  and  he  turned  his  head  round  in  a 
curious  way  to  look  at  you  out  of  it.  That  dreadful  one 
eye  always  seemed  to  be  going  to  shoot.  His  voice  had 
not  a  chord  of  tenderness  in  it,  but  was  in  every  way 
harsh  and  hard.  It  was  said  that  he  had  been  a  school 
master  once.  I  pity  the  scholars. 

Widow  Martin  lived — if  you  could  call  it  living — in  a 
tumble-down-looking  house,  that  would  not  have  stood 
many  earthquakes.  She  had  tried  diligently  to  support 
her  family  and  keep  them  together ;  but  the  wolf  stood 
always  at  the  door.  Sewing  by  hand  did  not  bring  in 
quite  money  enough  to  buy  bread  and  clothes  for  four 
well  children,  and  pay  the  expenses  of  poor  little  Harry's 
sickness ;  for  all  through  the  summer  and  fall  Harry  had 
been  sick.  At  last  the  food  was  gone,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  buy  fuel  with.  Mrs.  Martin  had  to  go  to  the 
overseer  of  the  poor. 

She  was  a  little,  shy,  hard-working  woman,  this  Mrs. 
Martin  ;  so  when  she  took  her  seat  among  the  paupers 
of  every  sort  in  Mr.  Lampeer's  office,  and  waited  her 
turn,  it  was  with  a  trembling  heart.  She  watched  the 
hard  man,  who  didn't  mean  to  be  so  hard,  but  who 
couldn't  tell  the  difference  between  a  good  face  and  a 
counterfeit ;  she  watched  him  as  he  went  through  with 
the  different  cases,  and  her  heart  beat  every  minute  more 
and  more  violently.  When  he  came  to  her  he  broke  out 
with — 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  49 

"  What's  your  name?  "  in  a  voice  that  sounded  for  all 
the  world  as  if  he  were  accusing  her  of  robbing  a  safe. 

"  Sarah  Martin,"  said  the  widow,  trembling  with  ter 
ror,  and  growing  red  and  white  in  turns.  Mr.  Lampeer, 
who  was  on  the  lookout  for  any  sign  of  guiltiness,  was  now 
sure  that  Mrs.  Martin  could  not  be  honest. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  "  This  was  spoken  with  a  half 
sneer. 

"  In  Slab  Alley,"  whispered  the  widow,  for  her  voice 
was  scared  out  of  her. 

"  How  many  children  have  you  got  ?  " 

Mrs.  Martin  gave  him  the  list  of  her  five,  with  their 
ages,  telling  him  of  little  Harry,  who  was  six  years  old 
and  an  invalid. 

"  Your  oldest  is  twelve,  and  a  girl.  I  have  a  place  for 
her,  and,  I  think,  for  the  boy,  too.  You  must  bind  them 
out.  Mr.  Slicker,  the  landlord  of  the  Farmers'  Hotel, 
will  take  the  girl,  and  I  think  James  Sweeny  will  take  the 
boy  to  run  errands  about  the  livery  stable.  I'll  send  you 
some  provisions  and  coal  to-day ;  but  you  must  let  the 
children  go.  I'll  come  to  your  house  in  a  few  days. 
Don't  object ;  I  won't  hear  a  word.  If  you're  as  poor  as 
you  let  on  to  be,  you'll  be  glad  enough  to  get  your  young 
ones  into  places  where  they'll  get  enough  to  eat.  That's 
all — not  a  word,  now."  And  he  turned  to  the  next  ap 
plicant,  leaving  the  widow  to  go  home  with  her  heart 
cold. 

4 


5O  QUEER   STORIES. 


Let  Susie  go  to  Slicker's  tavern  !  What  kind  of  a 
house  would  it  be  without  her  ?  Who  would  attend  to 
the  house  while  she  sewed  ?  And  what  would  become 
of  her  girl  in  such  a  place  ?  And  then  to  send  George,  who 
had  to  wait  on  Harry — to  send  him  away  forever  was  to 
shut  out  all  hope  of  ever  being  in  better  circumstances. 
Then  she  could  not  sew,  and  the  children  could  never 
help  her.  God  pity  the  people  that  fall  into  the  hands  of 
public  charity  ! 

The  next  few  days  wore  heavily  on  with  the  widow. 
What  to  do  she  did  not  know.  At  night  she  scarcely 
slept  at  all.  When  she  did  drop  into  a  sleep,  she  dreamed 
that  her  children  were  starving,  and  woke  in  fright.  Then 
she  slept  again,  and  dreamed  that  a  one-eyed  robber  had 
gotten  in  at  the  window,  and  was  carrying  off  Susie  and 
George.  At  last  morning  came.  The  last  of  the  food 
was  eaten  for  breakfast,  and  Widow  Martin  sat  down  to 
wait.  Her  mind  was  in  a  horrible  state  of  doubt.  To 
starve  to  death  together,  or  to  give  up  her  children  ! 
That  was  the  question  which  many  a  poor  mother's  heart 
has  had  to  decide.  Mrs.  Martin  soon  became  so  nervous 
she  could  not  sew.  She  could  not  keep  back  the  tears, 
and  when  Susie  and  George  put  their  arms  about  her 
neck  and  asked  what  was  the  matter,  it  made  the  mat 
ter  worse.  It  was  the  day  before  Christmas.  The 
sleigh-bells  jingled  merrily.  Even  in  Slab  Alley  one 
could  hear  sounds  of  joy  at  the  approaching  festivities. 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  51 

But  there  was  no  joy  in  Widow  Martin's  house  or  heart. 
The  dinner-hour  had  come  and  passed.  The  little  chil 
dren  were  hungry.  And  yet  Mrs.  Martin  had  not  made 
up  her  mind. 

At  the  appointed  time  Lampeer  came.  He  took  out 
the  two  indentures  with  which  the  mother  was  to  sign 
away  all  right'to  her  two  eldest  children.  It  was  in  vain 
that  the  widow  told  him  that  if  she  lost  them  she  could 
do  no  work  for  her  own  support,  and  must  be  forever  a 
pauper.  Lampeer  had  an  idea  that  rro  poor  person  had  a 
right  to  love  children.  Parental  love  was,  in  his  eyes,  or 
his  eye,  an  expensive  luxury  that  none  but  the  rich  should 
indulge  in. 

"  Mrs.  Martin,"  he  said,  "you  may  either  sign  these 
indentures,  by  which  your  girl  will  get  a  good  place  as  a 
nurse  and  errand-girl  for  the  tavern-keeper's  wife,  and 
your  boy  will  have  plenty  to  eat  and  get  to  be  a  good 
hostler,  or  you  and  your  young  ones  may  starve  !  "  With 
that  he  took  his  hat  and  opened  the  door. 

"  Stop  !  "  said  Mrs.  Martin.  "  I  must  have  medicine 
and  food,  or  Harry  will  not  live  till  Sunday.  I  will  sign." 

The  papers  were  again  spread  out.  The  poor-master 
jerked  the  folds  out  of  them  impatiently,  in  a  way  that 
seemed  to  say,  "  You  keep  me  an  unconscionable  long 
time  about  a  very  small  matter." 

When  the  papers  were  spread  out,  Mrs.  Martin's  two 
oldest  children,  who  began  to  understand  what  was  going 


52  QUEER  STORIES. 


on,  cried  bitterly.  Mrs.  Martin  took  the  pen  and  was 
about  to  sign.  But  it  was  necessary  to  have  two  wit 
nesses,  and  so  Lampeer  took  his  hat  and  called  a  neigh 
bor-woman,  for  the  second  witness. 

Mrs.  Martin  delayed  the  signature  as  long  as  she 
could.  But  seeing  no  other  help,  she  took  up  the  pen. 
She  thought  of  Abraham  with  the  knife  in  his  hand. 
She  hoped  that  an  angel  would  call  out  of  heaven  to  her 
relief.  But  as  there  was  no  voice  from  heaven,  she 
dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink. 

Just  then  some  one  happened  to  knock  at  the  door, 
and  the  poor  woman's  nerves  were  so  weak  that  she  let 
the  pen  fall,  and  sank  into  a  chair.  Lampeer,  who  stood 
near  the  door,  opened  it  with  an  impatient  jerk,  and — did 
the  angel  of  deliverance  enter  ? 

It  was  only  Willie  Blake  and  Sammy  Bantam. 

VIII. 

SHARPS   AND   BETWEENS. 

LET  us  go  back.  We  left  Willie  awhile  ago  puzzling 
over  that  twenty-four  dollars.  After  many  hours  of 
thought  and  talk  with  Sammy  about  how  they  should 
manage  it,  two  gentlemen  gave  them  nine  dollars,  and  so 
there  was  but  fifteen  more  to  be  raised.  But  that  fifteen 
seemed  harder  to  get  than  the  fifty  they  had  already  got- 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  53 

ten.  At  last  Willie  thought  of  something.  They  would 
try  the  sewing-machine  man.  Mr.  Sharps  would  throw 
off  fifteen  dollars. 

But  they  did  not  know  Mr.  Sharps.  Though  he  made 
more  than  fifteen  dollars  on  the  machine,  he  hated  to 
throw  anything  off.  He  was  always  glad  to  put  on. 
Sammy  described  him  by  saying  that  "  Mr.  Sharps  was 
not  for-giving  but  he  was  for-getting. " 

They  talked ;  they  told  the  story  ;  they  begged.  Mr. 
Sharps  really  could  not  afford  to  throw  off  a  cent.  He 
was  poor.  Taxes  were  high.  He  gave  a  great  deal.  (I 
do  not  know  what  he  called  a  great  deal.  He  had  been 
to  church  three  times  in  a  year,  and  twice  he  had  put  a 
penny  in  the  plate.  I  suppose  Mr.  Sharps  thought  that 
a  great  deal.  And  so  it  was,  for  him,  poor  fellow.)  And 
then  the  butcher  had  raised  the  price  of  meat ;  and  he 
had  to  pay  twenty-three  dollars  for  a  bonnet  for  his 
daughter.  Really,  he  was  too  poor.  So  the  boys  went 
away  down-hearted. 

But  Sammy  went  straight  to  an  uncle  of  his,  who  was 
one  of  the  editors  of  the  Thornton  Daily  Bugle.  After 
a  private  talk  with  him  he  started  back  to  Mr.  Sharps. 
Willie  followed  Sammy  this  time.  What  Sammy  had  in 
his  head  Willie  could  not  make  out. 

"  I'll  fix  him  !  "  That  was  the  only  word  Sammy  ut 
tered  on  the  way  back. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Sharps,"  he  began,  "  my  uncle's  name  is 


54  QUEER   STORIES. 


Josiah  Penn.  Maybe  you  know  him.  He's  one  of  the 
editors  of  the  Thornton  Daily  Bugle.  I've  been  talking 
with  him.  If  you  let  me  have  a  Feeler  and  Stilson  sew 
ing-machine  for  fifty  dollars,  I  will  have  a  good  notice  put 
in  the  Daily  Bugle" 

Mr.  Sharps  whistles  a  minute.  He  thought  he  could 
not  do  it.  No,  he  was  too  poor. 

"Well,  then,  Willie,"  said  Sammy,  "we'll  go  across 
the  street  and  try  the  agent  of  the  Hillrocks  and  Nibbs 
machine.  I  think  Mr.  Betweens  will  take  my  offer." 

"O!"  said  Mr.  Sharps,  "you  don't  want  that  ma 
chine.  It's  only  a  single  thread,  and  it  will  ravel,  and — 
well — you  don't  want  that." 

"  Indeed,  my  mother  says  there  isn't  a  pin  to  choose 
between  them,"  said  Sammy  ;  "and  I  can  give  Mr.  Be 
tweens  just  as  good  a  notice  as  I  could  give  you." 

"Very  well ;  take  the  machine  for  fifty  dollars.  I  do 
it  just  out  of  pity  for  the  widow,  you  know.  I  never 
could  stand  by  and  see  suffering  and  not  relieve  it.  You 
won't  forget  about  that  notice  in  the  Daily  Bugle,  though, 
will  you  ?  " 

No,  Sammy  wouldn't  forget. 

It  was  now  the  day  before  Christmas,  and  the  boys 
thought  they  had  better  get  the  machine  down  there. 

So  they  found  Billy  Horton,  who  belonged  to  their 
class,  and  who  drove  an  express  wagon,  and  told  him 
about  it.  He  undertook  to  take  it  down.  But  first,  he 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  55 

drove  around  the  town  and  picked  up  all  the  boys  of  the 
class,  that  they  might  share  in  the  pleasure. 

Meantime,  a  gentleman  who  had  heard  of  Willie's  ef 
forts,  gave  him  a  five-dollar  bill  for  Widow  Martin.  This 
Willie  invested  in  provisions,  which  he  instructed  the  gro 
cer  to  send  to  the  widow. 

He  and  Sammy  hurried  down  to  Widow  Martin's  and 
got  there,  as  I  told  you  in  the  last  chapter,  just  as  she  was 
about  to  sign  away  all  right,  title,  and  interest  in  two  of 
her  children  ;  to  sign  them  away  at  the  command  of  the 
hard  Mr.  Lampeer,  who  was  very  much  irritated  that  he 
should  be  interrupted  just  at  the  moment  when  he  was 
about  to  carry  the  point ;  for  he  loved  to  carry  a  point 
better  than  to  eat  his  breakfast. 

IX. 

THE   ANGEL   STAYS   THE   HAND. 

WHEN  the  boys  came  in,  they  told  the  widow  that 
they  wished  to  speak  with  little  sick  Harry.  They  talked 
to  Harry  awhile,  without  noticing  what  was  going  on  in 
the  other  part  of  the  room. 

Presently  Willie  felt  his  arm  pulled.  Looking  round, 
he  saw  Susie's  tearful  face.  "  Please  don't  let  mother 
give  me  and  George  away."  Somehow  all  the  children 
in  school  had  the  habit  of  coming  to  this  long-headed 
Willie  for  help,  and  to  him  Susie  came. 


56  QUEER   STORIES. 


That  word  of  Susie's  awakened  Willie.  Up  to  that 
moment  he  had  not  thought  what  Mr.  Lampeer  was  there 
for.  Now  he  saw  Mrs.  Martin  holding  the  pen  with  trem 
bling  hand,  and  making  motions  in  the  air  preparatory 
to  writing  her  name.  Most  people  not  used  to  writing, 
write  in  the  air  before  they  touch  the  paper.  When  Wil 
lie  saw  this,  he  flew  across  the  room  and  thrust  his  hand 
upon  the  place  where  the  name  ought  to  be,  saying, — 

"  Don't  do  that,  Mrs.  Martin  !  Don't  give  away  your 
children  !  " 

Poor  woman  !  the  pen  dropped  from  her  hand  as  the 
knife  had  dropped  from  Abraham's.  She  grasped  Wil 
lie's  arm,  saying, — 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?     Do  tell  me  !  " 

But  Lampeer  had  grasped  the  other  arm,  and  broke 
out  with — 

"  You  rogue,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Willie's  fine  blue  eyes  turned  quickly  into  Lampeer's 
one  muddy  eye. 

"  Let  go  !  "  he  said,  very  quietly  but  very  deter 
minedly  ;  "  don't  strike  me,  or  my  father  will  take  the  law 
on  you." 

Lampeer  let  go. 

Just  then  the  groceries  came,  and  a  minute  later,  Billy 
Horton's  wagon  drove  up  with  the  machine,  and  all  the 
other  boys,  who  came  in  and  shook  hands  with  the  poor 
but  delighted  mother  and  her  children.  I  cannot  tell 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  57 

you  any  more  about  that  scene.     I  only  know  that  Lam- 
peer  went  out  angry  and  muttering. 

X. 

TOMMY    PUFFER. 

WILLIE  was  happy  that  night.  He  went  down  to  the 
festival  at  the  Mission.  There  was  Tommy  Puffer's  soft, 
oyster-like  body  among  the  scholars  of  the  Mission.  He 
was  waiting  for  something  good.  His  mouth  and  eyes 
were  watering.  He  looked  triumphantly  at  the  boys  from 
the  other  school.  They  wouldn't  get  anything  so  nice. 
The  superintendent  announced  that  no  boy's  name  would 
be  called  for  a  paper  bag  of  "refreshments"  but  those  who 
had  been  present  two  Sundays.  And  so  poor  starving 
Tommy  Puffer  had  to  carry  his  pudding-bag  of  a  body 
home  again  without  a  chance  to  give  it  an  extra  stuffing. 

XL 

AN   ODD    PARTY. 

I  CANNOT  tell  you  about  the  giving  of  the  broom- 
machine  to  the  blind  broom-maker  ;  of  the  ton  of  coal  to 
Aunt  Parm'ly,  and  of  all  the  other  things  that  happened 
on  Christmas  Day  when  the  presents  were  given.  I  must 
leave  these  things  out.  As  for  Aunt  Parm'ly,  she  said 


58  QUEER   STORIES. 


she  did  not  know,  but  dat  dare  coal  seemed  like  it  come 
from  de  sky. 

But  there  was  an  ample  feast  yet  for  the  boys  at  the 
Sunday-school,  for  many  biscuits,  and  cakes,  and  pies  had 
been  baked.  But  every  time  Willie  looked  at  the  walk 
ing-stick  he  thought  of  "  the  poor,  the  maimed,  the  lame, 
and  the  blind."  And  so  he  and  Sammy  Bantam  soon  set 
the  whole  school,  teachers  and  all,  a-fire  with  the  idea  of 
inviting  in  the  inmates  of  the  county  poor-house.  It  was 
not  half  so  hard  to  persuade  the  members  of  the  school 
to  do  this  as  it  was  to  coax  them  to  the  first  move  ;  for 
when  people  have  found  out  how  good  it  is  to  do  good, 
they  like  to  do  good  again. 

Such  a  company  it  was  !  There  was  old  crazy  New- 
berry,  who  had  a  game-bag  slung  about  his  neck,  and  who 
imagined  that  the  little  pebbles  in  it  were  of  priceless 
value.  Old  Dorothy,  who  was  nearly  eighty,  and  who, 
thanks  to  the  meanness  of  the  authorities,  had  not  tasted 
any  delicacy,  not  so  much  as  a  cup  of  tea,  since  she  had 
been  in  the  almshouse  ;  and  there  were  half-idiots,  and 
whole  idiots,  and  sick  people,  and  crippled  people,  arm 
less  people  and  legless  people,  blind  people  and  deaf. 
Such  an  assortment  of  men,  women,  and  little  children, 
you  cannot  often  find.  They  were  fed  with  the  good 
things  provided  for  the  Sunday-school  children,  much 
to  the  disgust  of  Tommy  Puffer  and  his  mother.  For 
Tommy  was  bent  on  getting  something  to  eat  here. 


MR.  BLAKE'S  WALKING-STICK.  59 

There  were  plenty  of  people  who  claimed  the  credit 
of  suggesting  this  way  of  spending  the  Christmas.  Wil 
lie  did  not  say  anything  about  it,  for  he  remembered  what 
Christ  had  said  about  blowing  a  trumpet  before  you. 
But  I  think  Sammy  Bantam  trumpeted  Willie's  fame 
enough. 

It  would  be  hard  to  tell  who  enjoyed  the  Christmas 
the  most.  But  I  think  the  givers  found  it  more  blessed 
than  the  receivers.  What  talk  Mr.  Blake  heard  in  his 
rounds  I  cannot  tell.  If  you  want  to  know,  you  must  ask 
the  Old  Ebony. 


THE   CHAIRS   IN   COUNCIL. 

IT  was  a  quiet  autumn  afternoon.  I  was  stretched  on 
a  lounge,  with  a  pile  of  newspapers  for  a  pillow.  I 
do  not  know  that  I  succeeded  in  getting  any  information 
into  my  head  by  putting  newspapers  under  it.  But  on 
this  particular  afternoon  I  was  attacked  by  a  disease  of 
the  eyes,  or  rather  of  the  eyelids.  They  would  droop.  I 
don't  know  by  what  learned  name  the  doctors  call  this 
disease,  but,  as  I  could  not  read  with  my  eyes  closing 
every  second  or  two,  I  just  tucked  my  newspapers  away 
under  my  head  and  rested  my  eyelids  awhile. 

I  remember  that  there  was  a  hen  cackling  in  the  barn, 
and  a  big  bumble-bee  buzzing  and  bumbling  around  in  a 
consequential  way  among  the  roses  under  the  window, 
and  I  could  hear  the  voices  of  the  children  in  the  front 
yard  playing  with  their  dishes. 

I  don't  know  how  long  I  had  lain  thus.  But  I  remem 
ber  that  the  cackling  hen  and  the  bumbling  bee  and  the 
laughing  children  seemed  to  get  farther  and  farther  away, 
the  sounds  becoming  less  and  less  distinct.  All  at  once 
the  sewing  chair  that  sat  alongside  of  me,  with  a  pile  of 
magazines  on  it,  began  to  rock,  and  as  it  rocked  it  moved 


THE   CHAIRS   IN   COUNCIL.  6 1 


off  from  me.  I  felt  surprised,  and  at  first  thought  of  tak 
ing  hold  of  it,  but  my  arm  seemed  so  tired  that  I  couldn't 
move  it.  And  the  chair  rocked  itself  across  the  floor,  and 
through  the  door  into  the  sitting-room.  And  as  I  looked 
after  it,  I  saw  my  old  library  chair  hobble  into  the  sitting- 
room,  also.  Then  came  the  well-cushioned  easy  chair, 
puffing  and  panting  good  naturedly,  as  it  rolled  smoothly 
along  on  castors.  I  was  just  wondering  what  all  this 
meant,  when  the  parlor  door  opened,  and  there  marched 
in  a  procession  of  parlor  chairs,  behind  which  gathered 
the  plainer  cane-seat  ones  of  the  dining-room.  Next  came 
a  solemn  line  of  black,  wooden  kitchen  chairs.  Then  I 
heard  a  commotion  above,  and  the  staid  bedroom  seats 
made  a  fearful  racket  as  they  came  down  the  steps. 

"  Are  we  all  in  now  ?  "  said  the  easy  chair,  blandly. 

A  faint  noise  was  heard  on  the  steps,  and  presently  in 
came  an  old  arm  chair  that  had  belonged  to  my  grand 
mother.  It  had  lain  in  the  garret  covered  with  spider 
webs  for  years,  and  indeed  it  was  quite  infirm  in  the  joints, 
and  must  have  had  a  hard  time  getting  down  two  flights 
of  stairs. 

I  now  tried  to  move,  determined  to  go  and  see  what 
was  the  matter  with  the  furniture,  but  the  tired  feeling 
crept  all  over  me  and  I  lay  still. 

"  Well,"  said  the  easy  chair,  who  seemed  to  be  presi 
dent,  "  we  are  ready  for  business." 

There  was  a  confused  murmur,  and  the  next  I  knew 


62  QUEER   STORIES. 


one  of  the  damask  satin  parlor  chairs  was  speaking  in  a 
very  polished  and  dignified  way  about  the  grievances  of 
parlor  chairs  in  general. 

"  It's  too  bad,"  said  he,  "  to-  be  always  shut  up  in  a 
close  room  except  when  there's  company.  There  are  no 
better-looking  chairs  than  we  are.  We  belong  to  a  su 
perior  class  of  beings,  and  it  is  trying  to  one's  nerves  to 
lead  so  secluded  a  life  when  one  wants  to  be  generally  ad 
mired.  These  cane-seat  chairs,  and  those  low,  black, 
wooden  fellows " 

"  I  trust  there  will  be  no  personalities,"  said  the  easy 
chair.  "  The  kitchen  chairs  are  wooden,  but  that  is  not 
their  fault ;  and  as  to  their  being  black,  that's  a  mere 
matter  of  paint,  a  mere  matter  of  paint ;  "  and  the  easy 
chair  shook  his  cushioned  sides  as  if  he  thought  this  last 
remark  a  piece  of  exquisite  pleasantry. 

"  I  say,"  continued  Damask  Satin,  Esq.,  "  I  say  that 
these  common-place  fellows  are  constantly  admitted  to 
the  society  of  the  family,  and  we,  genteel  as  we  are,  have 
to  live  secluded.  But  for  that  matter  I  should  rather  be 
shut  up  always  than  be  forced  into  association  with  these 
common  cane-seat  and  those  low,  vulgar,  wooden— 

"Order!"  said  the  easy  chair;  "I  must  call  Mr. 
Satin  to  order." 

"Why,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  cane-seats,  "the  insolence 
of  that  parlor  fellow  is  insufferable  !  He's  good  for  noth 
ing  but  show.  Nobody  likes  to  use  him.  He  wasn't 


THE   CHAIRS   IN   COUNCIL.  63 

made  for  any  useful  purpose.  Talk  about  a  thing  being 
trying  to  his  nerves  !  Let  him  have  the  children  make  a 
steamboat  of  him  as  they  do  of  me  !  Let  him  have  some 
awkward  fellow  rack  his  joints  by  sitting  on  him  and  lean 
ing  back  against  the  wall.  Then  let  him  talk  about 
nerves  !  It's  hard  enough,  sir,  to  have  to  be  used  in  that 
fashion  without  being  compelled  to  associate,  as  we  have 
to,  with  those  low,  wooden  fellows,  and  then  have  to 
listen  to  the  abuse  of  that  pampered,  good-for-nothing 
dandy  in  damask  satin,  that " 

"  I  trust,"  said  the  easy  chair,  "  that  the  debate  will 
not  proceed  in  this  way.  I  am  sorry  that  so  much  dis 
content  is  manifested.  The  life  of  a  chair  is  certainly  not 
altogether  unpleasant  ;  at  least  I  have  not  found  it  so." 

"  Sir,"  said  one  of  the  kitchen  chairs,  "  I  know  I  am 
wooden,  but  I  was  made  so  ;  and  I  know  I  am  black,  but, 
as  you  observed  awhile  ago,  that  is  a  question  of  paint." 

"A  mere  question  of  paint,"  said  the  easy  chair  again, 
evidently  delighted  to  have  his  witticism  quoted. 

"  But,  sir,"  continued  the  wooden  chair,  "when  I  was 
new  I  was  not  to  be  laughed  at.  If  I  was  black,  I  was  var 
nished  brightly  and  glistened  beautifully  when  the  chair- 
maker  set  me  and  my  brothers,  here,  out  in  a  row  in  the 
sun.  And  then,  sir,  we  each  had  a  large  yellow  rose  on  our 
foreheads,  and  I  assure  you  we  were  beautiful  in  our  own 
way,  sir,  in  our  way.  But,  sir,  you  talk  about  the  life  of 
a  chair  not  being  altogether  unpleasant.  Perhaps  not,  for 


64  QUEER   STORIES. 


an  easy  chair,  so  nicely  cushioned  as  you  are.  Every  time 
our  owner  sits  down  in  your  arms  she  says,  *  Well,  this  is 
just  the  most  comfortable  seat  in  the  world  ! '  But  no 
body  ever  praises  me.  If  a  neighbor  drops  in  and  takes 
me  or  one  of  my  fellows,  the  mistress  just  says,  '  Don't 
take  that  uncomfortable  chair,'  and  immediately  offers 
one  of  these  cane-seats.  That's  the  way  we're  insulted, 
sir  ;  and  when  anybody  wants  a  chair  to  stand  on,  the 
mistress  says,  '  Take  a  wooden  one.'  Just  see  the  marks 
of  Johnny's  boot  nails  on  me  now,  and  that  scratch, 
caused  by  Bridget's  using  me  and  one  of  my  fellows  to 
put  the  washtub  on  !  " 

The  black  chair  subsided  with  the  look  of  an  injured 
individual,  and  the  high  chair  commenced  to  complain, 
but  was  interrupted  by  the  sewing  chair,  who  thought 
that  "  females  had  some  rights."  She  was  silenced,  how 
ever,  by  my  grandmother's  old  chair,  who  leaned  on  the 
table  while  she  spoke.  The  old  lady  complained  of  the 
neglect  of  old  age  by  the  younger  generation. 

Just  at  this  moment,  as  the  meeting  was  getting  in 
to  a  hubbub,  and  bade  fair  to  dissolve  as  unceremoni 
ously  as  some  ward  political  meetings  do,  my  staid  old 
library  chair  began  to  talk,  looking  very  learned  at  the 
same  time. 

"Mr.  President,"  said  he,  "  I  regret  the  turn  affairs 
have  taken.  The  race  of  chairs  is  a  very  honorable  one. 
A  chair  is  an  insignia  of  honor,  as  I  might  prove  by  many 


THE   CHAIRS   IN    COUNCIL.  65 


eminent  authorities.  When  human  beings  wish  to  call 
some  one  to  the  presidency  of  a  meeting,  they  move  that 
the  Hon.  Jonathan  Wire-worker  be  called  to  the  chair. 
And  then  they  call  him  the  c/iatr-man.  Now  it  is  an 
honor  to  be  a  chair,  whether  it  be  a  parlor  chair,  bottomed 
with  damask  satin,  or  a  hair-seat  chair,  or  a  cane-seat 
chair,  a  high  chair,  or  a  baby's  rocking  chair,  or  a  super 
annuated  chair  in  a  garret,  or  an  easy  chair,  or  a  wooden- 
bottomed  chair,  or  a  learned  library  chair,  like  myself.  I 
tell  you,  sir,  it  is  an  honor  to  be  a  chair.  I  am  proud  of 
the  fact  that  I  am  a  chair.  [Cries  of  hear  !  hear  !  !] 

"  And  now,  sir,  we  are  each  adapted  to  our  station. 
What  kind  of  a  kitchen  chair  would  one  of  these  high- 
headed,  damask  satin  parlor  gentlemen  make?  How  would 
they  stand  washtubs  and  boot  heels  ?  And  what  sort  of 
a  looking  parlor  chair  would  my  friend,  Mr.  Wooden 
Bottom,  be  ?  Even  if  he  were  new,  and  covered  with 
black  varnish,  and  had  a  yellow  rose  on  his  forehead,  how 
would  he  look  among  the  pictures,  and  on  the  nice  parlor 
carpet  ? 

"  Now  let  us  each  stick  to  our  several  stations,  and  not 
degrade  ourselves  by  learning  the  evil  and  discontented 
habits  of  human  beings,  each  one  of  whom  thinks  his  lot 
the  hardest." 

I  felt  a  little  provoked  at  this  last  remark,  and  was  go 
ing  to  get   up  and   dissolve  the  meeting,  but   the  library 
chair  said  something  about  what  a  glorious  thing  it  was 
5 


66  QUEER   STORIES. 


to  be  a  chair,  and  then  they  all  applauded,  damask  satins, 
wooden  bottoms,  and  all ;  and  then  everything  was  in  a 
whirl,  and  I  rubbed  my  eyes,  and  the  sewing  chair  sat  just 
as  it  was  at  first,  with  the  pile  of  magazines  on  it,  and  I 
peeped  into  the  parlor,  and  the  damask  satins  were  in 
their  places  as  stiff  as  ever.  How  they  all  got  back  in 
their  places  so  quickly  I  couldn't  tell.  I  went  into  the 
dining-room  and  found  Allegra  perched  on  the  high 
chair,  lashing  two  of  the  cane-seat  ones  that  were  thrown 
down  for  horses. 

And  I  rubbed  my  eyes  again, — I  must  have  slept. 


WHAT    THE    TEA-KETTLE    SAID. 

A  BOUT  the  time  the  chairs  had  a  talk  together,  I  be- 
•*•*•  lieve  I  told  you.  Well,  ever  since  that  time  I  have 
been  afflicted,  now  and  then,  with  that  same  disease  of 
the  eyes,  inclining  them  to  close.  In  fact,  I  am  rather  of 
the  opinion  that  the  affliction  must  be  one  of  the  ear,  too, 
for  I  hear  some  curious  things  while  the  spell  is  on. 
Either  that,  or  else  something  has  "gotten  into"  the 
furniture  about  my  house.  It  beats  all,  the  time  I  had 
the  other  day.  It  was  a  cold,  wet  October  day,  the  wind 
whistled  through  the  key-holes  and  shook  the  sash  vio 
lently,  while  the  rain  drizzled  wretchedly  against  the 
glass. 

As  there  happened  to  be  no  fire  anywhere  else,  I  took 
a  seat  in  the  kitchen.  There  I  sat  in  the  heat  of  the  cook 
ing-stove,  and  reading,  or  trying  to  read  Rollin's  "Ancient 
History."  But  the  book  was  dull,  and  the  day  was  dull, 
and  it  really  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  duller  than  anything 
else.  Hannibal  and  Themistocles,  Spain  and  Carthage, 
and  Rome  seemed  to  me  the  dullest  things  in  the  world. 
I  wondered  how  people  that  were  so  dull  had  managed  to 
live,  and  how  so  stupid  a  fellow  as  Monsieur  Rollin  ever 


68  QUEER   STORIES. 


contrived  to  write  so  big  and  dull  a  book.  It  did  seem 
very  dull  in  the  rain,  too,  to  keep  pattering  away  at  the 
glass  in  that  stupid  fashion. 

And  so  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair,  and  watched  Brid 
get  fill  the  tea-kettle  and  set  it  over  the  fire. 

"  Good  !  "  said  I  ;  "  Bridget,  there's  no  music  on  a 
dull  day  like  the  cheery  singing  of  the  tea-kettle." 

And  Biddy  laughed,  as  she  went  out,  and  I  leaned 
back  again,  and  closed  my  eyes.  All  at  once  I  heard  a 
keen,  piping  voice,  saying, 

"  Hum — hum  !  Simmer  !  We'll  soon  have  things  a- 
going." 

The  sound  seemed  to  come  up  out  of  the  tea-kettle 
spout.  I  was  so  surprised  that  I  rubbed  my  eyes  and 
looked  around.  There  was  the  tea-kettle,  but  I  could 
hear  no  sound  from  it.  Closing  my  eyes  again,  I  heard 
it  begin, 

"  Simmer,  simmer,  hum,  hum,  now  we'll  have  things 
a-going.  Hot  fire,  this  !  Simmer,  simmer,  hum,  hum, 
simmer.  There's  nothing  like  contentment,"  it  went  on. 
"  But  it's  a  little  hard  to  sit  here  and  simmer,  simmer, 
simmer  forever.  But  I  keep  on  singing,  and  I  am  happy. 
There's  my  sister,  the  tea-pot.  Bridget  always  keeps  her 
bright.  She  goes  into  the  best  society,  sits  by  the  side 
of  the  china  cups  on  the  tea-tray  that  has  flowers  painted 
on  it  ;  vain  little  thing  is  my  sister  tea-pot  !  Dreadful 
proud  of  her  graceful  waist.  Thinks  her  crooked  nose  is 


WHAT   THE   TEA-KETTLE   SAID.  69 


prettier  than  my  straight  one.  She  ^handsome,  and  I 
am  glad  of  it.  I  feel  proud  of  her  when  I  see  her  sitting 
among  the  china.  But,  la,  me  !  of  what  account  would 
she  be  if  I  didn't  help  her  ?  I'd  like  to  know  how  they'd 
make  tea  without  hot  water  !  What  would  she  be  good 
for,  any  how,  if  I  didn't  do  the  drudgery  for  her  ?  This 
fire  would  ruin  her  complexion  ! 

"  Whew  !  this  is  hot  work." 

The  tea-kettle's  voice  had  grown  higher  and  higher, 
until  she  was  almost  shrieking  by  this  time,  and  so  she 
went  on. 

"  But  then,  I  don't  mean  to  be  proud  or  envious.  I 
mean  to  keep  cheerful.  But  I  do  get  tired  of  staying  in 
the  kitchen,  always  among  the  pots.  I'm  a  good  singer, 
but  the  world  don't  seem  to  appreciate  my  voice,  and 
'  Chicken  Little  '  says  that  I  sing  through  my  nose. 

"  But  I  wish  I  could  travel  a  little.  There  are  my 
cousins,  the  family  of  steam  boilers.  They  won't  ac 
knowledge  their  relationship  to  me  any  more.  But  what 
is  that  huge  locomotive,  with  such  a  horrid  voice,  that 
goes  puffing  and  screeching  past  here  every  morning  ? 
What  is  he  but  a  great,  big,  black  tea-kettle  on  wheels  ! 
I  wish  I  was  on  wheels,  and  then  I  could  travel,  too. 
But  this  old  stove  won't  budge,  no  matter  how  high  I  get 
the  steam. 

"  And  they  do  say  the  tea-kettle  family  is  much  older 
than  the  steam  boiler  family.  But  wouldn't  I  like  to 


70  QUEER    STORIES. 


travel !  I  wonder  if  I  couldn't  start  off  this  old  stove. 
Bridget's  out,  and  the  master's  asleep,  and— 

I  was  just  going  to  tell  the  kettle  I  was  wide  awake, 
but  I  didn't  feel  like  talking,  and  so  the  kettle  went 
on. 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  good  mind  to  try  it.  Wouldn't  it  be 
a  brilliant  thing,  if  I  could  move  the  old  cooking  stove  ? 
Wouldn't  Bridget  stare,  when  she  came  back,  if  she  should 
see  the  '  Home  Companion  '  running  off  down  the  railroad 
track  ? 

"  Whew  !  I  believe  I'll  burst.  Bridget's  jammed  the 
lid  down  so  tight  I  can't  breathe  ! 

"  But  I'm  going  to  try  to  be  a  locomotive.  Here 
goes." 

Here  the  kettle  stopped  singing,  and  the  steam  poured 
out  the  spout  and  pushed  up  the  lid,  and  the  kettle  hissed 
and  rattled  and  rattled  and  hissed  so  that  I  really  was 
afraid  it  would  run  off  with  the  stove.  But  all  its  puffing 
was  in  vain.  And  so,  as  the  fire  began  to  go  down,  the 
kettle  commenced  to  sing  again. 

"  Well,  what  a  fool  I  was  ! 

"  I'm  only  a  tea-kettle  ;  I  never  shall  be  anything 
else  ;  and  so  there's  the  end  of  it.  It's  my  business  to 
stay  here  and  do  my  duty  in  the  kitchen.  I  suppose  an 
industrious,  cheerful  tea-kettle  is  just  as  useful  in  its  place 
as  a  steam  engine  ;  yes,  and  just  as  happy,  too.  And  if 
I  must  stay  in  this  kitchen  among  the  pots  the  rest  of  my 


WHAT   THE   TEA-KETTLE   SAID.  7 1 

days,  I  mean  to  do  my  share  to  make  it  the  cheerfulest 
kitchen  in  all  the  country." 

Here  the  voice  of  the  tea-kettle  died  down  to  a  plain 
tive  simmer,  simmer,  and  I  heard  Sunbeam  say,  "  He's 
asleep."  She  always  thinks  I'm  asleep  when  I  rest  my 
eyes. 

"  Tea  is  ready,"  said  three  of  them,  at  once. 


CROOKED  JACK. 

JACK  GRIP  was  a  queer  fellow.  Queer  because  he 
never  got  enough  money,  and  yet  never  seemed  to 
know  the  right  use  of  money.  His  family  had  the  bare 
comforts  of  life,  but  his  wife  was  a  drudge,  and  his  chil 
dren  had  neither  books  nor  pictures,  nor  any  of  those 
other  things  so  necessary  to  the  right  education  of  chil 
dren.  Jack  was  yet  young,  but  he  was  in  great  danger 
of  becoming  a  miser.  The  truth  was,  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  get  rich.  It  took  him  some  time  to  make  up 
his  mind  to  be  dishonest,  but  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  be 
rich,  and  lately  he  had  been  what  his  neighbors  called 
"  slippery  "  in  his  dealings.  Poor  Jack  !  he  was  selling 
his  conscience  for  gold,  but  gold  could  never  buy  it  back. 

On  a  certain  night  in  November,  the  night  that  my 
story  begins,  Jack  was  not  at  ease.  His  accounts  showed 
that  he  had  made  money.  He  was  getting  rich  very  fast, 
but  something  troubled  him.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  it 
was  ? 

Just  next  to  Jack's  farm  was  a  perfect  beauty  of  a  little 
place,  on  which  lived  the  Widow  Lundy.  Her  husband 
had  bought  the  farm,  and  borrowed  money  of  Jack  Grip 


CROOKED    JACK.  73 


to  pay  for  it.  It  was  about  half  paid  for  when  poor 
Lundy  was  killed  by  a  falling  tree.  There  was  some 
money  due  him,  and  he  had  a  little  property  besides,  so 
that  the  widow  sent  word  to  Mr.  Grip  that  if  he  would 
only  wait  till  she  could  get  her  means  together,  she  would 
pay  up  the  remainder.  But  times  were  hard,  and  Jack 
saw  a  chance  to  make  two  thousand  dollars  by  forcing  the 
sale  of  the  farm  and  buying  it  himself.  It  just  fitted  on 
to  his  lower  field.  It  went  hard  to  turn  the  widow  out, 
but  Jack  Grip  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  be  rich. 
He  tried  to  make  it  seem  right,  but  he  couldn't.  He  had 
forced  the  sale  ;  he  had  bought  the  place  for  two  thousand 
less  than  it  was  worth. 

The  widow  was  to  move  the  next  morning.  She  had 
little  left,  and  it  was  a  sad  night  in  the  small  brown  house. 
Poor  little  Jane,  only  ten  years  old,  cried  herself  to  sleep, 
to  think  she  must  leave  her  home,  and  Harry  was  to  go 
to  live  with  an  aunt  until  his  mother  found  some  way  of 
making  a  living. 

Poor  Jack  could  not  sleep  and  dare  not  pray.  He 
kept  thinking  of  something  in  the  Bible  about  "  devour 
ing  widows'  houses."  He  could  not  forget  the  face  of  an 
old  Quaker  who  had  met  him  on  the  road  that  day  and 
said:  "Friend  Jack,  thy  ways  are  crooked  before  the 
Lord  !  "  "  Maybe  they  are,"  said  Jack,  "  but  my  money 
is  as  straight  as  anybody's,  and  my  farm  is  a  good  deal 
nearer  straight  than  it  was  before  I  bought  the  Lundy 


74  QUEER    STORIES. 


place."  Jack  could  not  sleep,  however,  for  thinking  of 
the  old  Quaker  and  his  solemn  words.  He  tried  to  think 
that  his  possessions  were  straight  anyhow.  When  he  did 
sleep,  he  dreamed  he  was  the  young  ruler  that  gave  up 
Christ  for  the  sake  of  his  money  ;  then  he  was  the  rich 
man  in  torment.  At  last  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  though 
the  sun  was  shining  in  at  the  windows,  he  thought  things 
looked  curious.  The  chairs  were  crooked,  so  was  the 
bedstead.  The  window  was  crooked,  the  whole  house 
seemed  to  be  crooked.  Jack  got  up,  and  found  he  was 
old  and  crooked  himself.  The  cat  and  dog  on  the 
crooked  hearth  were  crooked.  There  was  nobody  in  the 
house  but  Jack.  He  took  his  crooked  stick,  and  went 
out  through  the  crooked  door,  down  the  crooked  walk, 
among  the  crooked  trees,  along  the  wall  into  the  crooked 
cemetery,  where  were  crooked  graves  with  the  names  of 
his  wife  and  children  over  them.  As  crooked  Jack,  with 
his  crooked  stick,  followed  by  his  crooked  dog,  took  his 
crooked  way  back,  he  met  the  old  Quaker,  who  said 
again  :  "  Friend  Jack,  thy  ways  are  very  crooked."  He 
went  in  at  a  crooked  gate,  and  up  the  crooked  walk 
among  the  crooked  trees,  in  at  the  crooked  door,  and  sat 
down  on  the  crooked  chair  by  the  crooked  hearth.  The 
crooked  dog  lay  down  by  him,  and  the  crooked  cat 
mewed.  He  opened  his  crooked  money-box  and  the 
gold  coins  were  all  crooked.  "  Here  I  am,"  said  Jack, 
"  a  crooked  old  man  in  a  crooked  old  house,  with  no 


CROOKED   JACK.  75 


friends  but  this  crooked  old  dog  and  crooked  old  cat. 
What  is  all  my  crooked  money  worth  ?  What  crooked 
ways  I  took  to  get  it." 

Crooked  old  Jack  felt  sick  and  lay  down  upon  his 
crooked  old  bed.  Somehow,  his  crooked  old  money-box 
got  upon  his  breast  and  seemed  to  smother  him.  Then 
his  crooked  account-books  piled  themselves  upon  him, 
and  it  seemed  impossible  for  him. to  breathe.  He  tried 
to  call  out,  but  his  voice  died  to  a  whisper,  and  the  only 
answer  he  received  was  a  low  growl  from  the  crooked  old 
dog.  Then  the  crooked  old  cat  mewed. 

Just  then  Jack  Grip  awoke,  and  found  that  all  this  was 
a  crooked  dream  ;  but  the  perspiration  stood  in  beads  on 
his  brow,  and  though  it  was  broad  daylight,  and  his  wife 
and  children  were  about  him,  Jack  thought  things  were 
indeed  crooked.  In  the  first  place,  Jack  was  sure  that 
his  farm  was  crooked,  for  his  new  addition  was  little  better 
than  stolen.  His  home  was  crooked,  for  he  had  not 
made  it  a  pleasant  home.  His  children  were  crooked,  for 
he  was  not  educating  them  right.  And  then,  at  bottom, 
he  knew  that  his  own  heart  was  the  crookedest  thing  of 
all.  The  Lundys  were  all  packed  ready  to  start  that 
morning.  Bitter  were  their  tears.  But  a  messenger  from 
Mr.  Grip  brought  them  a  deed  to  their  farm,  and  a  note, 
saying  that,  as  some  amend  for  the  trouble  he  had  given 
them,  Mrs.  Lundy  would  please  accept  the  amount  still 
due  on  the  farm  as  a  present. 


76  QUEER    STORIES. 


There  are  many  crooked  people  in  the  world  ;  some 
in  one  way,  some  in  another.  When  you  get  to  be  a 
crooked  old  man,  or  a  crooked  old  woman,  will  your  life 
look  crooked  to  you  as  crooked  Jack's  did  to  him  ? 


THE  FUNNY  LITTLE  OLD  WOMAN. 

LITTLE  Tilda  Tulip  had  two  lips  as  pretty  as  any 
little  girl  might  want.  But  Tilda  Tulip  tilted  her 
two  lips  into  a  pout,  on  a  moment's  notice.  If  any  thing 
went  wrong — and  things  had  a  way  of  going  wrong  with 
her — if  any  thing  went  at  all  wrong,  she  would  go  wrong, 
too,  as  if  it  would  do  any  good  to  do  wrong.  Some  peo 
ple  are  always  trying  to  mend  crooked  things  by  getting 
crooked  themselves.  There  are  some  little  girls,  and  not 
a  few  big  ones,  that  seem  to  think  the  quickest  way  of 
straightening  a  seam  that  is  puckered  is  to  pucker  a  face 
that  is  straight. 

Sometimes  her  friends  would  ask  what  she  would  do 
if  her  face  were  to  freeze  in  frowns,  but  her  Uncle  John 
used  to  say  that  she  was  always  too  hot  to  freeze.  One 
evening  she  came  to  Uncle  John  with  the  usual  frown, 
showing  him  her  new  brocade  doll  dress.  She  had  put  it 
away  carelessly,  and  it  was  all  in  "  beggars'  presses." 

"  Just  see,  Uncle  John,"  she  whined  ;  "  dear  me  !  I 
never  get  any  thing  nice  that  it  isn't  spoiled  somehow  or 
other.  Isn't  that  too  bad  ?  This  dress  has  been  wrinkled 
for  a  week,  and  now  it  will  never  come  smooth  at  all." 

"  That's  bad,  surely,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  but  there  is 


78  QUEER    STORIES. 


something  more  than  that.  I  know  something  of  yours 
that  is  finer  than  that  brocade  silk,  that  is  all  in  '  beggars' 
presses.' ' 

"  Why,  no,  Uncle  John,  I  haven't  any  thing  so  fine  as 
this,  you  know,  and  now  this  is  all  puckered  and  wrinkled 
and  krinkled,  and  what  will  I  do  ?  " 

"  Give  me  your  hand,"  said  Uncle  John.  "  Do  you 
see  that  skin  ?  There  is  no  silk  so  fine  as  that.  These 
chubby  cheeks  are  covered  with  a  skin  that  is  finer.  But 
you  have  kept  this  skin  puckered  about  your  eyes  and 
your  forehead  and  the  corner  of  your  mouth,  you  have 
kept  it  puckered  and  wrinkled  and  krinkled  as  you  say, 
till  I  am  afraid  it  will  never  be  straight.  I  don't  think  a 
hot  iron  would  smoothe  it.  Do  you  ?  " 

Now  Uncle  John  spoke  very  kindly,  indeed.  There 
were  no  wrinkles  in  his  voice.  Some  people  have 
wrinkles  in  their  words.  But  notwithstanding  her  uncle's 
kindness,  naughty  little  Tilda  Tulip  went  off  in  a  pout, 
and  declared  that  Uncle  John  was  "  real  mean.  He 
never  feels  sorry  for  a  body  when  they  are  in  trouble." 
And  so  she  wrinkled  her  voice  into  a  whine,  and  wrinkled 
and  puckered  her  face  up  most  frightfully. 

At  last,  tired  of  teasing  and  talking  and  troubling, 
Tilda  Tulip  tumbled  into  her  trundle-bed  and  was  tucked 
tightly  in.  Everybody  was  glad  when  she  went  to  sleep. 
Everybody  dreaded  the  time  when  she  should  wake  up. 
She  was  a  good  girl  when  she  was  asleep. 


THE   FUNNY   LITTLE   OLD    WOMAN.  79 

She  dreamed.  It  was  a  funny  dream.  I  think  she 
must  have  remembered  what  Uncle  John  said,  for  she 
thought  she  saw  a  funny  little  old  house,  by  a  funny  little 
old  hill,  near  a  funny  little  old  bridge.  Out  of  this  house 
came  a  funny  little  old  woman,  with  a  funny  little  old 
bonnet,  carrying  a  funny  little  old  bag  on  her  back,  and 
with  a  funny  little  old  cane  in  her  hand.  Her  face  was 
wrinkled  and  cross  —  wrinkled  all  over,  and  she  stooped 
dreadfully.  But  she  tossed  her  funny  little  old  bag  on  to 
the  back  of  a  funny  little  old  donkey,  and  climbed  up  her 
self.  Then  she  was  cross  with  the  funny  little  old  bag, 
and  mad  with  the  funny  little  old  donkey,  and  she  beat 
him  with  a  funny  little  old  stick,  and  scolded  and  scolded 
with  a  funny  little  old  cracked,  quivering,  peevish,  hateful 
voice. 

And  so  Tilda  followed  her  as  she  rode,  and  all  the  rude 
boys  along  the  road  cried  out,  "  There  goes  the  funny 
little  old  woman  and  her  donkey  !  "  And  a  beautiful  lady 
came  along,  and  when  she  met  the  funny  little  old  woman, 
she  sat  down  on  a  stone  and  wept,  and  said,  "  O  Miriam, 
my  daughter  !  "  But  the  funny  little  old  woman  only 
beat  her  donkey  and  scolded  more  than  ever.  And  Tilda 
wondered  why  the  beautiful  woman  called  the  funny  little 
old  woman  her  daughter.  And  Tilda  dreamed  that  many 
days  passed,  and  that  every  day  the  funny  little  old 
woman  rode  on  the  funny  little  old  donkey  to  the  city. 
And  every  day  the  beautiful  woman  wept  and  said,  "  O 


80  QUEER    STORIES. 


Miriam,  my  daughter  !  "     One  day  Tilda  approached  the 
beautiful  woman  and  spoke  to  her. 

"Why    do    you    call   that    funny,    hateful,    little    old 
woman  your  daughter  ?  "   • 

"  Because  she  is  my  daughter." 
"  But  she  is  so  much  older  than  you  are." 
"Why,"  said  the  beautiful  woman,  "  don't  you  know 
the  history  of  the  funny  little  old  woman  that  rides  her 
donkey  to  town  every  day  ?  She  is  my  daughter.  She 
is  not  old  ;  but  she  was  a  cross  child.  She  fretted  and 
pouted,  and  scolded  and  screamed.  She  frowned  till  her 
brow  began  to  wrinkle.  I  do  not  know  whether  a  fairy 
enchanted  her  or  not,  but  when  she  became  angry  there 
was  one  wrinkle  that  could  not  be  removed.  The  next 
time  she  was  mad,  another  wrinkle  remained.  When  she 
found  that  the  wrinkles  would  not  come  out  she  became 
mad  at  that,  and  of  course,  every  time  she  got  into  a  pas 
sion  there  came  other  wrinkles.  Then,  too,  her  temper 
grew  worse.  Her  once  beautiful  voice  began  to  sound 
like  a  cracked  tin  horn.  The  wrinkles  soon  covered  her 
face  ;  then  they  grew  crosswise  ;  you  see  it  is  all  in  beggars' 
presses.  She  got  old  ;  she  shrivelled  up  ;  she  stooped 
over.  She  became  so  cross  that  she  spends  most  of  her 
time  in  that  funny  little  old  house,  to  keep  away  from  the 
rest  of  us.  She  must  have  something  to  do,  and  so  she 
gets  angry  at  the  stones  and  breaks  them  up.  She  then 
carries  them  to  the  city  and  throws  them  into  the  river. 


THE   FUNNY   LITTLE   OLD    WOMAN.  8 1 

She  must  have  something  to  beat,  and  so  we  let  her  have 
this  poor  donkey,  whose  skin  is  thick.  She  beats  him, 
and  thus  people  are  saved  from  her  ravings.  I  do  not 
know  whether  she  will  ever  come  to  her  senses  or  not. 
O  Miriam,  my  daughter  !  " 

At  last  Tilda  dreamed  that  the  funny,  wrinkled,  cross, 
little  old  woman,  got  down  one  day  off  her  donkey, 
poured  the  stones  out  of  the  bag,  and  came  and  sat  down 
by  the  beautiful  lady.  Then  the  funny  little  old  woman 
cried.  She  put  her  head  in  the  lap  of  the  beautiful  lady, 
and  said,  "  O  mother,  how  shall  I  get  these  wrinkles 
away  !  " 

And  the  beautiful  lady  kissed  her  and  said,  "  Ah  !  my 
daughter,  if  you  will  but  cast  out  the  bitterness  from  your 
heart,  as  you  poured  the  stones  from  the  bag,  I  shall  not 
care  for  the  wrinkles  ?  " 

The  next  day  Tilda  saw  the  funny  little  old  woman 
feeding  and  petting  the  donkey.  Then  she  saw  her  car 
rying  food  to  a  poor  widow.  And  every  time  the  funny 
little  old  woman  did  a  kind  act  there  was  one  wrinkle  less 
on  her  face.  And  then  she  went  into  a  hospital,  and  she 
was  so  kind  to  the  sick  that  they  all  loved  the  funny  little 
old  woman.  And  still  the  wrinkles  grew  fewer,  and  the 
form  grew  straighter,  and  the  face  grew  fresher,  until  all  the 
people  in  the  hospital  said,  "Our  funny  little  old  woman 
is  really  getting  younger."  And  younger  and  still 
younger  she  became,  until  the  beautiful  lady  kissed  her 


82  QUEER   STORIES. 


beautiful  Miriam  again,  and  the  music  came  back  into  her 
voice  once  more.  And  Tilda  Tulip  thought  in  her  dream 
that  Miriam  looked  like  herself,  and  that  the  beautiful  lady 
seemed  like  her  own  mother.  And  then  she  waked  up 
and  found  it  morning,  for  she  had  dreamed  all  this  long 
dream  in  one  night. 

And  when  she  was  about  to  fly  into  a  passion  with  her 
stockings,  in  dressing,  the  thought  of  the  funny  little  old 
woman  and  her  face  in  beggars'  presses  kept  her  from  it. 
When  she  was  dressed  she  told  uncle  Jack  all  about  the 
dream,  and  he  smiled. 

1  'Suppose  you  try  the  plan  that  the  funny  little  old 
woman  .did,  and  see  if  you  can't  get  rid  of  some  of  your 
wrinkles,"  he  said  to  Tilda. 


WIDOW  WIGGINS'  WONDERFUL  CAT. 

T  T  7IDOW  WIGGINS  was  a  wee,  wiry,  weird  woman, 
*  *  with  a  wonderful  cat — a  very  wonderful  cat,  in 
deed  !  The  neighbors  all  said  it  was  bewitched.  Per 
haps  it  was  ;  I  don't  know  ;  but  a  very  wonderful  cat  it 
was.  It  had  a  strange  way  of  knowing,  when  people 
were  talking,  whether  what  they  said  was  right  or  wrong. 
If  people  said  what  they  ought  not  to  say,  wee  Widow 
Wiggins'  wonderful  cat  would  mew.  Perhaps  the  cat  had 
lived  so  long  with  the  wee,  wiry,  weird  widow  woman, 
who  was  one  of  the  best  in  the  world,  that  it  had  gotten 
her  dislike  to  things  that  were  wrong.  But  the  wee 
widow's  neighbors  were  afraid  of  that  cat.  When  Mrs. 
Vine,  a  very  vile,  vinegar-tongued,  vixenish  virago, 
abused  her  neighbors  to  the  wee,  wiry,  weird,  widow 
woman,  the  Widow  Wiggins'  wonderful  cat  would  mew. 
And  so  the  vile,  vixenish  virago  wished  the  cat  was  dead. 
And  when  slender,  slim,  slippery  Sly  Slick,  Esq.,  tried 
to  persuade  the  widow  to  swindle  her  neighbor,  the  cat 
mewed  furiously.  And  so  it  came  that  Mr.  Slick  did  not 
like  the  wee  widow's  wonderful  cat.  In  fact,  he  said  it 
was  a  nuisance.  And  Tilda  Tattle,  the  tiresome-tongued, 


84  QUEER   STORIES. 


town  tale-bearer,  could  not  abide  the  cat,  because  it 
mewed  all  the  time  she  was  tattling. 

And  so  it  happened  that  good  Deacon  Pettibone,  and 
his  wife,  who  was  even  better  than  the  deacon,  were 
about  the  only  visitors  the  wee,  weird  Widow  Wiggins 
had.  As  the  deacon  never  said  any  harm  of  anybody, 
and  as  the  deacon's  wife  never  thought  any  harm,  and  as 
the  wee  widow  woman  never  felt  any  harm,  the  cat  would 
lie  stretched  out  on  the  hearth  all  day  while  these  three 
good  people  talked. 

But  though  the  deacon  was  good,  and  his  wife  was 
better,  yet  the  deacon's  oldest  son  was  not  the  boy  he 
ought  to  have  been.  Somehow  or  other,  as  it  will  hap 
pen  sometimes,  he  listened  to  everybody  but  his  father 
and  his  mother.  Bad  company  led  him  astray.  At  first 
the  deacon  did  not  suspect  him  ;  but  when  he  showed 
signs  of  having  been  drinking,  the  deacon  was  very  severe. 
1  am  afraid  there  was  not  enough  of  kindness  in  the 
father's  severity.  At  any  rate,  after  awhile,  Tom  was 
told  that  if  he  repeated  the  offence  he  must  go  from  home. 
Tom  had  got  to  be  a  hard  boy.  The  deacon  felt 
greatly  provoked.  But  when  a  boy  shows  that  he  is  not 
able  to  overcome  temptation  while  he  is  at  home,  I  am 
not  sure  that  he  will  be  any  better  if  he  is  sent  by  himself. 
I  don't  think  that  helps  it.  But  Tom  was  bad,  and  so  he 
had  no  right  to  complain.  He  yielded  to  temptation,  and 
was  sent  away,  his  father  telling  him  that  he  should  never 


WIDOW   WIGGINS'    WONDERFUL   CAT.  85 


come'back  again.  Deacon  Pettibone  thought  he  was  do 
ing  right,  but  I  am  afraid  he  was  angry. 

Well,  when  Tom  got  away  he  did  not  get  any  better. 
He  went  down  faster.  At  last  his  health  broke  down. 
He  thought  of  home  as  he  walked  around  hardly  able  to 
stand  up.  But  the  deacon  would  not  ask  him  back,  nor 
would  he  encourage  him  even  by  a  kind  look  to  ask  to  be 
taken  back  again.  The  deacon's  wife  tried  to  persuade 
him.  She  cried.  But  the  deacon  said  he  must  not  break 
his  word.  His  wife  told  him  that  a  rash  word  ought  to  be 
broken  where  it  did  others  harm.  The  deacon's  wife  grew 
sick,  and  the  vile,  vinegar-tongued,  vixenish  virago  said 
that  the  deacon  was  an  old  brute.  The  tattling,  tiresome- 
tongued,  town  tale-bearer  talked  about  a  good  many 
things  that  she  might  say,  if  she  wanted  to,  and  she  did 
say  that  the  deacon  and  his  wife  did  not  get  on  like  an 
gels.  But  the  wee,  wiry,  weird  Widow  Wiggins  watched 
wearily  by  the  bedside  of  the  sick  Mrs.  Pettibone.  And 
still  Deacon  Pettibone  refused  to  break  his  word,  though 
he  was  breaking  his  wife's  heart,  and  breaking  God's  com 
mand,  and  ruining  his  son. 

At  last  the  sick  mother,  longing  for  her  son,  thought 
of  a  plan  by  which  to  bring  her  husband  to  reason. 

"  Fetch  your  cat  over  the  next  time  you  come,"  she 
said  to  the  wee,  wiry,  widow  woman. 

And  so  when  the  wee,  weird  Widow  Wiggins  came 
again,  the  wonderful  cat  followed  her  and  lay  down  by 


86  QUEER   STORIES. 


the  stove.     Soon  after  the  deacon  came  in,  looking  very 
sad  but  very  stern. 

"  Did  you  see  Tom  ?  "  asked  his  wife. 

"No,  I  didn't,"  said  the  deacon,  "and  I  don't  want 
to." 

"Mew!"  said  the  cat. 

The  deacon  noticed  the  cat,  and  got  a  little  red  in  the 
face  ;  but  he  went  on  talking. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  wife,  Tom  has  made  his  bed  and 
he  must  lie  on  it,  that's  all  !  " 

"  Mew  !  mew  !  mew  !  " 

"  I  can't  break  my  word  anyhow ;  I  said  he  shouldn't 
come  back,  and  he  shan't  ;  so  now  there's  no  use  in  pin 
ing  yourself  to  death  over  a  scapegrace." 

"Mew!  mew!  mew  !  m-e-e-o-w  !  "  shrieked  the  cat, 
with  every  bristle  on  end,  and  her  claws  scratching  the 
floor. 

"  Mrs.  Wiggins,  I  wish  you  would  keep  that  miser 
able  cat  at  home,"  said  the  deacon ;  and  so  the  wee 
widow  woman  took  up  the  wonderful  cat  and  carried  it 
home. 

But  the  poor  deacon  couldn't  rest.  That  night  he 
thought  he  could  hear  that  cat  mewing  at  him  all  the 
time.  He  remembered  that  he  had  not  seen  Tom  for 
some  days.  What  if  he  was  dying  ?  It  was  a  long  night. 
The  deacon  at  last  got  to  thinking  of  the  touching  and 
wonderful  Parable  of  the  Prodigal.  And  then  in  the  still- 


WIDOW   WIGGINS'   WONDERFUL   CAT.  8/ 

ness  he  thought  he  could   hear  something  in  his  heart 
mewing  at  him. 

At  last  daylight  came,  and  he  hastened  to  find  Tom  in 
a  wretched  garret  racked  with  disease.  He  brought  him 
home  tenderly,  and  Tom  got  well  both  in  his  body  and  in 
his  soul. 


The  Chicken   Little   Stories. 


SIMON  AND  THE  GARULY. 

CHICKEN  LITTLE  fixed  herself  up  in  her  new  rock- 
^-^  ing-chair,  set  her  mouth  in  a  very  prim  fashion, 
leaned  her  head  on  one  side,  and  began  to  rock  with  all 
her  might,  jerking  her  feet  from  the  floor  every  time. 

"  I  yish,"  she  began,  "  I  yish  somebody  yould  tell 
some  stories  yat  yould  be  little  for  me  to  hear." 

And  having  made  this  speech,  which  was  meant  as  a 
hint  for  me,  she  rocked  harder  than  ever,  nearly  upsetting 
herself  two  or  three  times. 

"  What  shall  it  be  about  ?  "  I  said. 

"  'Bout  some  naughty  boy  or  'nother." 

She  likes  to  hear  of  naughty  boys,  but  not  of  naughty 
girls.  She  thinks  stones  of  naughty  girls  are  a  little  per 
sonal.  And  so,  with  her  chair  going  and  her  shining  eyes 
peering  out  from  under  her  overhanging  forehead,  I  began 

THE  STORY. 

Simon  was  a  selfish  fellow.  He  was  always  willing 
anybody  should  divide  good  things  with  him,  but  was 
never  willing,  himself,  to  divide  with  anybody  else. 
He  was  never  willing  to  play  with  others,  for  fear  he 
would  not  be  treated  right.  His  two  brothers  and  his 


92  QUEER   STORIES. 


sister  had  their  playthings  together,  but  Simon  would  not 
play  with  them,  for  fear  he  should  not  get  his  rights  in  all 
things,  and  so  he  took  his  little  stock  and  set  up  for  him 
self.  His  brothers  and  sister,  of  course,  by  putting  theirs 
together,  had  many  more  than  he.  Then,  too,  by  work 
ing  together,  they  managed  to  fix  up  many  nice  things. 
But  poor  Simon  had  nobody  to  help  him,  and  nobody  to 
play  with  him.  So  he  came  to  feel  very  bad.  He 
thought  everybody  was  angry  with  him. 

One  sunny  afternoon,  when  the  other  children  were 
laughing  and  shouting  merrily,  poor  Simon  tried  in  vain 
to  be  happy  by  himself.  Something  in  his  throat  kept 
choking  him. 

("  I  guess  it  was  the  cry  that  choked  him,"  broke  in 
the  Small  Chicken.  "  I  had  a  cry  in  my  throat  yester 
day.  It  was  bigger  than  my  fist,  and  most  choked  me  to 
death,  till  I  let  it  out.") 

Yes,  that  was  what  hurt  him,  and  presently  he,  let  it 
out,  as  you  say,  and  had  a  good,  hard  cry.  Then  gradu 
ally  he  went  off  into  a  sort  of  doze.  Soon  he  felt  some 
thing  strike  him  on  the  head. 

"Wake  up  !  wake  up!  " 

Simon  opened  his  eyes,  and  saw  a  funny,  little,  old 
man  standing  over  him,  who  kept  one  of  his  eyes  shut  all 
the  time,  and  looked  out  of  the  other  with  the  queerest 
twinkle  in  the  world.  He  had  a  knotty  stick  in  his  hand, 
and  was  tapping  Simon  over  the  head  with  it. 


SIMON   AND   THE   GARULY.  93 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  growled  Simon. 

With  that  the  old  man  hit  him  another  sharp  blow 
over  the  head. 

"  Get  up,"  he  said,  "and  come  with  me,  and  I  will 
show  you  where  I  live.  I  am  one  of  the  Garulies." 

Simon  got  to  his  feet,  partly  because  he  was  afraid  of 
another  blow  from  the  cudgel,  and  partly  because  he  had 
a  very  great  desire  to  know  something  of  the  Garulies. 

"Come  along!  come  along!"  said  the  queer  little 
man,  as  he  gave  Simon  another  tap. 

He  took  the  road  through  the  woods  pasture,  down 
under  Swallow  Hill,  and  then  through  the  blackberry 
patch,  until  they  came  to  the  brook  known  as  "  Bee  Tree 
Run."  Here,  just  at  the  foot  of  a  large  sycamore,  and 
among  its  roots,  was  fastened  a  curious  boat,  made  of  a 
large  turtle  shell  turned  upside  down. 

"  Get  in  !  get  in  !  "  squealed  the  little  old  Garuly. 

"  I  am  too  large,"  said  Simon;  "that  craft  will  sink 
if  I  step  in." 

In  an  instant  the  little  man  whirled  round  and  hit  him 
three  tremendous  raps  over  the  head  with  his  cudgel, 
shouting,  or  rather  squeaking, 

"  Smaller!  smaller!  smaller!" 

The  blows  made  Simon's  head  ring,  but  when  he  re 
covered  himself,  he  found  that  the  turtle-shell  boat  ap 
peared  a  great  deal  larger  than  before.  •  Not  only  that, 
but  every  thing  about  him  appeared  larger.  He  soon 


94  QUEER  STORIES. 


discovered,  however,  that  he  was  smaller,  and  that  that 
was  what  made  other  things  seem  larger.  For  you  know 
we  measure  everything  by  ourselves. 

("  Mamma  doesn't,"  said  the  Chicken  ;  "  she  measures 
with  a  yard-stick.") 

Well,  Simon  prided  himself  on  being  so  big,  and  it 
was  not  pleasant  to  him  to  find  himself  suddenly  become 
so  small  that  a  large  rooster  could  have  looked  down  upon 
him.  But  he  did  not  say  any  thing,  for  fear  of  old  Ga- 
ruly's  stick,  but  just  got  into  the  boat  as  soon  as  possible. 
The  old  man  got  in,  too,  and  they  were  soon  floating 
down  the  stream.  The  brook  seemed  like  a  river,  and 
the  grass  upon  the  banks  was  like  trees,  to  Simon,  now. 
The  old  Garuly  guided  the  boat  over  the  rapids,  that 
seemed  frightful  to  Simon,  and  floated  it  down  to  where 
the  cliffs  were  steep,  and  presently  came  to  a  place  where 
the  water  runs  under  a  large  rock.  The  old  man  steered 
the  queer  craft  into  this  dark,  cave-like  place,  and  shot  up 
to  a  shelving  landing-place. 

"  Get  out  !  "  he  squeaked. 

Simon  did  as  he  was  commanded. 

"  Go  in  !  go  in  !  "  cried  the  Garuly,  pointing  to  a  hole 
in  the  cliff. 

"  I  am  too  large,"  said  Simon. 

And  immediately  the  old  man  struck  him  over  the 
head  three  times,  as  before,  crying, 

"  Smaller!  smaller!  smaller!" 


SIMON  AND   THE   GARULY.  95 

Simon  now  found  himself  not  more  than  half  as  large 
as  he  was  before.  He  went  in  with  the  Garuly,  who  had 
also  grown  smaller.  Inside  there  was  the  daintiest  cham 
ber,  all  full  of  beautiful  shells  wrought  into  tiny  articles  of 
furniture.  The  floor  was  paved  with  shining  pebbles, 
and  the  roofi  was  lit  up  by  three  fire-flies  and  two  glow 
worms. 

"  How  could  you  make  the  place  so  beautiful  ?  "  cried 
Simon. 

"  The  Garulies  work  together,"  said  the  old  man, 
sharply. 

The  little  man  told  Simon  to  go  in  through  another 
door,  but  Simon  was  still  too  large  for  that,  arid  so  the 
Garuly  again  pounded  him,  crying, 

"  Smaller  !  smaller  !  smaller  !  " 

Once  in,  Simon  saw  indeed  the  treasures  of  the  Ga- 
ruly's  household.  There  were  easy-chairs,  made  of  the 
hulls  of  hickory-  nuts  ;  hammocks,  made  of  the  inside  bark 
of  the  paw-paw  ;  wash-bowls,  curiously  carved  from  the 
hulls  of  beech-nuts  ;  and  beautiful  curtains,  of  the  leaves 
of  the  silver  poplar.  The  floor  was  paved  with  the  seeds 
of  the  wild  grape,  and  beautifully  carpeted  with  the  lich 
ens  from  the  beech  and  maple  trees.  The  beds  were 
made  of  a  great  variety  of  mosses,  woven  together  with 
the  utmost  delicacy  of  workmanship.  There  was  a  bath 
tub  made  of  a  mussel-  shell.,  cut  into  beautiful  cameo  fig 
ures. 


96  QUEER   STORIES. 


"  How  wonderful  !  "  cried  Simon,  clapping  his  hands. 

"  The  Garulies  work  together!"  said  the  old  man, 
more  decidedly  than  before. 

Simon  noticed  that  his  own  voice  was  beginning  to 
squeak  like  that  of  the  old  Garuly  himself.  But  after 
seeing  the  interior  of  his  dwelling,  he  would  not  have 
minded  being  changed  into  a  Garuly. 

The  old  man  was  now  leading  him  out  through  a  differ 
ent  entrance.  Then  along  a  path  they  went  until  they 
came  to  a  fence,  the  rails  of  which  seemed  to  Simon  to  be 
larger  than  logs.  They  crawled  through  the  fence,  and 
found  themselves  in  a  farm-yard.  The  chickens  seemed 
to  be  larger  than  those  great  creatures  that  geologists  say 
once  lived  on  the  earth,  and  that  were  as  high  as  a  house. 
Presently  they  came  to  a  bee-stand.  The  bees  seemed  to 
Simon  to  be  of  immense  size,  and  he  was  greatly  afraid  ; 
but  the  old  Garuly  spoke  to  the  fierce-looking  sentinel 
bee  that  stood  by  the  door  and  shook  one  of  his  antennae 
in  a  friendly  way. 

("His  Aunt  Annie?"  said  Chicken  Little.  "What 
do  you  mean?  " 

"  His  antennae  are  his  feelers,  the  little  hair-like  things 
that  stand  out  from  his  head.") 

Now  the  bees  seemed  to  know  the  Garuly,  and  so  they 
let  him  pass  in.  But  poor  Simon  had  to  be  pounded 
down  again  before  he  was  small  enough  to  go  in.  When 
he  got  in,  he  saw  a  world  of  beauty.  Being  so  small 


SIMON   AND   THE   GARULY.  97 

himself,  and  so  near  to  the  bees,  he  could  see  how  beau 
tiful  their  eyes  were,  made  up  of  hundreds  of  little  eyes, 
with  little  hairs  growing  out  between  them.  And  then, 
too,  the  honey-comb  seemed  like  great,  golden  wells, 
full  of  honey.  Each  well  seemed  as  large  as  a  barrel. 
They  climbed  up  along  the  sides  of  the  combs,  and  saw 
some  bees  feeding  the  young,  some  building  cells,  some 
bringing  in  honey,  some  feeding  the  queen  bee,  some 
clearing  out  the  waste  matter,  and  others  standing  guard. 
They  all  seemed  cheerful. 

"  Bees  all  work  together  !  "  piped  the  old  man.  "  No 
bee  is  selfish.  These  bees  will  not  live  to  eat  this  honey. 
Bees  that  work  hard  in  summer  only  live  to  be  about  two 
months  old.  This  honey  is  stored  for  others.  But  see 
how  happy  they  all  are.  How  much  may  be  done  by 
those  who  work  together  cheerfully." 

Out  of  the  hive  they  went,  and  back  toward  the  Ga- 
ruly's  house.  But  the  old  man  turned  aside  to  go  to  an 
ant-hill. 

"  Let's  go  in  here,"  said  the  Garuly. 

"  No,  I  am  too  large,"  said  Simon. 

"  Smaller  !  smaller  !  smaller  !  "  cried  the  Garuly,  beat 
ing  him  over  the  head  again,  until  Simon  was  not  much 
larger  than  the  ants,  and  the  ants  appeared  to  be  as  large 
as  ponies.  Down  the  well-like  hole  they  cljrnbed,  until 
they  entered  the  chambers  of  the  ants.  Here  all  were 
busy,  some  carrying  out  earth,  others  excavating  new 
7 


98  QUEER   STORIES. 


chambers,  others  caring  for  the  eggs,  others  bringing  in 
food,  while  others  were  clearing  out  the  road.  But  no 
one  grumbled,  none  said  that  he  had  the  heaviest  load. 

"  See  !  "  cried  the  Garuly,  "  the  little  ants  work  to 
gether.  They  have  all  things  in  common.  There  is  no 
selfishness  and  no  quarrelling  among  them." 

Just  then  a  wise  old  ant  came  up,  and  hearing  the 
Garuly's  remark,  he  said, 

"Did  you  never  hear  the 

"STORY  OF   THE  SELFISH  ANT? 

"  There  was  once  a  selfish  ant  who  could  never  be 
satisfied.  He  always  thought  he  had  the  hardest  work  in 
the  world.  If  he  carried  burdens,  he  complained  that 
those  who  cared  for  the  eggs  had  the  easiest  time  ;  and  if 
he  had  charge  of  the  eggs,  he  wished  to  be  changed  to 
some  other  kind  of  work.  At  last  he  thought  he  would 
set  up  for  himself.  It  was  exceedingly  hard  work  for  him 
to  dig  and  find  his  own  food  with  no  help,  so  that  half  the 
summer  was  gone  before  he  got  a  place  to  live  in,  and 
a  sorry  place  it  was.  Before  he  got  any  food  laid  by,  the 
rain  filled  up  his  house,  and  he  had  to  spend  another 
month  in  digging.  And  so,  with  one  mishap  and  another, 
and  no  one  to  help  him,  the  summer  was  soon  almost 
gone,  and  he  had  no  store  for  winter.  When  the  first 
frost  came,  the  selfish  fellow  came  back,  heartbroken  and 
crestfallen,  and  begged  to  be  taken  into  the  colony  again. 


SIMON   AND   THE   GARULY.  99 

All  winter  long  he  had  to  eat  the  bread  that  others  had 
gathered,  and  he  never  afterward  grumbled  because  his 
work  was  a  little  harder  than  that  of  others." 

"  You  see," 'said  the  Garuly,  "that  the  ants  work  to 
gether.  What  a  shame  it  is  that  you  should  not  be  able 
even  to  play  with  your  brothers  and  sister  !  " 

And  with  that  the  little  old  man  turned  his  one  eye  on 
Simon,  and  it  shone  like  a  coal  of  fire,  and  Simon  thought 
he  could  feel  it  burning  him.  Just  then  an  ant  came  up, 
who  had  heard  the  conversation,  and  asked  the  Garuly 
what  it  meant. 

"  He  will  not  even  play  with  his  brothers,"  said  the 
old  man,  looking  fiercer  than  ever. 

<l  Put  him  out !  "  cried  the  ant.  And  then  a  hundred 
ants  cried,  "  put  him  out  !  "  and  they  began  tugging  at 
him  with  all  their  might.  One  caught  hold  of  his  right 
foot  and  another  of  his  left,  one  took  him  by  the  arm  and 
another  by  the  head,  and  as  they  were  nearly  as  big  as  he 
was,  they  were  about  to  carry  him  off  bodily,  when  Simon 
suddenly  awoke,  and  started  up,  to  find  that  instead  of 
the  ants  tugging  at  him,  it  was  the  other  children,  who 
had  come  to  awaken  him,  for  fear  he  would  catch  cold 
sleeping  in  the  night  air,  and  to  find  that  what  he  thought 
was  the  one  fiery  eye  of  the  Garuly,  was  the  full  moon 
shining  through  the  trees. 

"  There,"  said  the  Wee  Chick,  "  that  spoils  the  story. 


100  QUEER   STORIES. 


I  don't  want  it  to  be  a  dream.  What  made  'em  yake  him 
up  so  twick  ?  "  ' 

"  Was  he  better  afterward?  "  said  Fairy. 

"  Yes,  for  the  very  next  day  he  moved  to  the  same 
playhouse  with  the  rest  of  the  children,  and  whenever  he 
was  selfish  he  would  look  around  to  see  if  the  old  Garuly 
was  looking  at  him  out  of  one  eye." 


THE  JOBLILIES. 

TT  7E  have  oak  trees  and  green  grass  at  our  house, 
•  *  what  many  children  in  crowded  cities  do  not  get. 
Three  little  girls  love  to  play  in  the  green  grass,  with  some 
pet  chickens,  and  a  white,  pink-eyed  rabbit  for  compan 
ions.  Now,  you  must  know  that  I  am  quite  as  fond  of 
the  oaks  and  the  grass  and  the  blue  sky  as  Sunbeam,  or 
Fairy,  or  the  brown-faced  Little  Chick.  And  so  it  hap 
pens,  when  the  day  is  hot,  and  the  lazy  breezes  will  not 
keep  the  house  cool,  that  I  just  move  my  chair  and  table 
out  by  the  lilac-bush  that  grows  under  the  twin  oaks,  and 
then  I  think  I  can  write  better.  And  there  I  sit  and 
watch  the  trains  coming  and  going  to  and  from  the  great, 
bustling  city,  only  a  dozen  miles  away,  or  listen  to  the 
singing  of  the  robins  while  I  write. 

I  was  sitting  thus  one  dull,  hot  afternoon,  trying  to 
write  ;  but  it  was  a  lazy  day  ;  the  robins  had  forgotten 
to  sing,  the  little  sparrows  that  live  up  in  the  oaks  had 
stopped  twittering,  and  the  very  honey  bees  were  hum 
ming  drowsily,  when  Chicken  Little  came  up  with  a 
wreath  of  white  clover  around  her  head,  and  begged  for 
a  story.  The  older  children  wanted  one,  also,  and  so  I 


102  QUEER   STORIES. 


had  to  tell  one.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  a  little  lazy  my 
self,  and  so  I  willingly  sat  down  in  the  grass  among  the 
children  and  began. 

"  Shall  I  tell  about  a  lazy  girl  about  as  big  as  Chicken 
Little  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,  sir,"  she  said  ;  "  tell  about  a  lazy  boy  that  was 
as  big  as  Sunbeam." 

Sunbeam  laughed  at  this,  and  nodded  her  head  for  me 
to  go  on. 

And  so  I  began  thus  : . "  Little  Lazy  Larkin  laughed 
and  leaped,  or  longed  and  lounged  the  livelong  day,  and 
loved  not  labor,  but  liked  leisure." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  cried  the  Wee  Chick  ;  "  that  sounds  so 
funny  !  " 

"  It's  got  so  many  1's,  that's  the  reason,"  said  Fairy. 

"  Tell  it  right,"  said  Sunbeam. 

"  Well,  then,"  I  said,  "Larkin  was  an  indolent  juve 
nile,  fond  of  mirthfulness  and  cachinatory  and  saltatory 
exercises — " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  !  "  said  Fairy,  just 
ready  to  get  angry. 

"  Sech  awful  big  words  ! "  cried  the  Little  Pullet  ; 
"they  is  as  big as  big  as  punkins  !  " 

"  I  guess  that's  what  they  call  hifalutin,"  said  Sun 
beam  ;  "  now  do  tell  it  right." 

And  so  I  told  it  "  right." 

Larkin  was  an  idle  fellow,  and  was  so  utterly  good- 


THE   JOBLILIES.  103 


for-nothing,  that  he  came  to  be  called  "  Lazy  Larkin."  It 
is  a  dreadful  thing  to  get  a  bad  name  when  you  are  young. 
It  sticks  to  you  like  a  sand  burr.  Larkin  would  neither 
work  nor  study.  He  did  not  even  like  good,  hearty  play, 
for  any  great  length  of  time,  but  was  very  fond  of  the  play 
that  boys  call  mumble-the-peg,  because,  as  he  said,  you 
could  sit  down  to  play  it.  He  fished  a  little,  but  if  the 
fish  did  not  bite  at  the  first  place,  he  sat  down ;  he  would 
not  move,  but  just  sat  and  waited  for  them  to  come  to 
him. 

He  had  gone  out  to  Bass  Lake  to  fish,  one  day,  in 
company  with  some  other  boys,  but  they  had  put  him  out 
of  the  boat  because  he  was  too  lazy  to  row  when  his  turn 
came.  The  others  were  rowing  about,  trolling  for  pick 
erel,  and  he  sat  down  on  a  point  of  land  called  "  Duck 
Point,"  and  went  to  fishing.  As  the  fish  would  not  bite, 
he  sat  looking  at  them  in  the  clear  water,  and  wishing 
that  he  was  a  fish — they  had  such  a  lazy  time  of  it,  lying 
there  in  the  sun,  or  paddling  idly  around  through  the 
water.  He  saw  a  large  pickerel  lying  perfectly  still  over 
a  certain  spot  near  the  shore.  When  other  fish  came  near 
the  pickerel,  it  darted  out  and  drove  them  off,  and  then 
paddled  back  to  the  same  place  again.  Larkin  dropped 
his  bait  near  by,  but  the  fish  paid  no  attention  to  it,  and, 
indeed,  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  lie  still  in  the 
same  place. 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  pickerel,"  said  the  lazy  fellow  ;   "  I 


104  QUEER   STORIES. 


wouldn't  have  to  carry  in  wood  or  pull  weeds  out  of  the 
garden,  or  feed  the  chickens,  or  get  the  multiplication 
table,  or — or — do  anything  else;"  and  he  gave  one  vast 
yawn,  stretching  his  mouth  so  wide,  and  keeping  it  open 
so  long,  that  it  really  seemed  as  if  he  never  would  get  it 
together  again.  When  it  did  shut,  his  eyes  shut  with  it, 
for  the  fellow  was  too  lazy  to  hold  them  open. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  lazy  fellow  !  lazy  fellow  !  " 

Larkin  heard  some  one  say  this,  and  raised  up  his 
head  to  see  who  it  was.  Not  finding  any  one  about,  he 
thought  he  must  have  been  dreaming.  So  he  just  gave 
one  more  yawn,  opening  his  mouth  like  the  lid  of  an  old 
tin  coffee-pot,  and  keeping  it  open  nearly  a  minute.  Then 
he  stretched  himself  upon  the  grass  again. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  lazy  fellow  !  lazy  fellow  !  " 

This  time  there  seemed  to  be  half  a  dozen  voices,  but 
Larkin  felt  too  lazy  to  look  up. 

"Ha!  ha!  very  lazy  fellow  !" 

Larkin  just  got  one  eye  open  a  little,  and  looked 
around  to  see  where  the  sound  came  from.  After  a  while, 
he  saw  a  dozen  or  more  very  odd,  queer-looking  crea 
tures,  sitting  on  the  broad,  round  leaves  of  the  water- 
lilies,  that  floated  on  the  surface  of  the  lake.  These  little 
people  had  white  caps,  for  all  the  world  like  the  white 
lily  blossoms  that  were  bobbing  up  and  down  around 
them.  In  fact,  it  took  Larkin  some  time  to  make  out 
clearly  that  they  were  not  lilies.  But  finally  he  saw  their 


THE   JOBLILIES.  105 


faces  peeping  out,  and  noticed  that  they  had  no  hands, 
but  only  fins  instead.  Then  he  noticed  that  their  coats 
were  beautifully  mottled,  like  the  sides  of  the  pickerel, 
and  their  feet  flattened  out,  like  a  fish's  tail.  Soon  he 
saw  that  others  of  the  same  kind  were  coming  up,  all 
dripping,  from  the  water,  and  taking  their  places  on  the 
leaves  ;  and  as  each  new-comer  arrived,  the  others  kept 
saying, 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  lazy  fellow  !  very  lazy  fellow  !  " 

And  then  the  others  would  look  at  him,  and  shake 
their  speckled  sides  with  laughter,  and  say,  "  Lazy  fellow  ! 
ha  !  ha  !  " 

Poor  Larkin  was  used  to  being  laughed  at,  but  it  was 
provoking  to  be  laughed  at  by  these  queer-looking  folk, 
sitting  on  the  lilies  in  the  water.  Soon  he  saw  that  there 
were  nearly  a  hundred  of  them  gathered. 

"  Come  on,  Joblilies  !  "  cried  one  of  them,  who  car 
ried  along  fish-bone,  and  seemed  to  be  leader;  "let's 
make  a  Joblily  of  him." 

Upon  that  the  whole  swarm  of  them  came  ashore. 
The  leader  stuck  his  fish-bone  in  Larkin,  and  made  him 
cry  out.  Then  they  all  set  up  another  laugh,  and  another 
cry  of  "  lazy  fellow  !  " 

"  Bring  me  three  grains  of  silver- white  sand  from  the 
middle  of  the  lake,"  said  the  leader  ;  and  two  of  them 
jumped  into  the  water  and  disappeared. 

"  Now  fetch  three  blades  of  dry  grass  from  the  lining 


T06  QUEER   STORIES. 


of  the  kingfisher's  nest,"  he  said  ;  and  immediately  two 
others  were  gone. 

When  the  four  returned,  the  leader  dropped  the  grains 
of  sand  in  Larkin's  eyes,  saying, 

"  Three  grains  of  silver  sand, 
From  the  Joblily's  hand  ! 
Where  shall  the  Joblily  lie, 
When  the  young  owl  learns  to  fly  ?  " 

Then  they  all  jumped  upon  him  and  stamped,  but  Lar- 
kin  could  not  move  hand  or  foot.  In  fact,  he  found  that 
his  hands  were  flattening  out,  like  fins.  The  leader  then 
put  the  three  blades  of  grass  in  Larkin's  mouth,  and  said, 

t(  Eat  a  dry  blade  !  eat  a  dry  blade  ! 

From  the  nest  that  the  kingfisher  made  ! 

What  will  the  Joblilies  do, 

When  the  old  owl  cries  tu-whoo  ?  " 

And  then  the  whole  party  set  up  such  a  cry  of  "  tu- 
whoo  !  tu-whoo  !  "  that  Larkin  was  frightened  beyond 
measure  ;  and  they  caught  him  and  rolled  him  over 
rapidly,  until  he  found  himself  falling  with  a  great  splash 
into  the  water.  On  rising  to  the  surface,  he  saw  that  he 
was  changed  into  a  Joblily  himself. 

Then  the  whole  party  broke  out  singing, 

"  When  the  sun  shines  the  Joblilies  roam  ; 
When  the  storm  comes  we  play  with  the  foam  ; 
When  the  owl  hoots  Joblilies  fly  home  !  " 


THE  JOBLILIES.  IO/ 


When  they  had  sung  this,  they  all  went  under  the 
water  ;  and  the  leader,  giving  Larkin  a  thrust  with  his 
fish-bone,  cried  out,  "  Come  along  !  "  and  Lazy  Larkin 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  swim  after  them.  Once  under 
the  water,  the  scene  was  exceedingly  beautiful.  The 
great  umbrella-like  leaves  of  the  lilies  made  spots  of 
shadow  in  the  water  and  on  the  pebbles  of  the  bottom, 
while  the  streaks  of  sunshine  that  came  down  between 
flecked  everything  with  patches  of  glorious  light,  just  as 
you  have  seen  the  hills  and  valleys  made  glorious  by 
alternate  patches  of  light  and  shade,  produced  by  the 
shadows  of  the  clouds.  And  the  tall  lily  stems,  in  the 
soft  light,  appeared  to  be  pillars,  while  the  great  variety 
of  water  weed,  that  wound  about  them  in  strange  festoons, 
was  glorious  beyond  description.  There  were  beautiful 
bass  turning  their  sides  up  to  the  sun,  and  darting  about 
through  these  strange,  weird  scenes,  seeming  to  enjoy 
their  glorious  abode. 

"You  have  an  easy  time  of  it,  no  doubt,"  said  Lar 
kin,  to  one  of  these  fish. 

"  Easy  time  of  it,  indeed  !  I  have  rather  a  happy  time 
of  it,  because  I  have  plenty  to  do  ;  but  you  are  a  strange 
Joblily  if  you  do  not  know  that  I  have  anything  but  an 
easy  time  of  it.  Chasing  minnows,  jumping  three  feet 
out  of  water  after  a  butterfly,  catching  wigglers  and 
mosquitoes,  and  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  for  unlucky 
grasshoppers  that  may  chance  to  fall  in  my  way  ;  all  these 


108  QUEER    STORIES. 


are  not  easy.  I  tell  you,  there  is  no  family  of  our  social 
position  that  has  more  trouble  to  earn  a  living  than  the 
bass  family." 

"  Come  along,"  said  the  Joblily,  giving  another  punch 
with  his  fish-bone  ;  and  Larkin  travelled  on. 

Presently  they  came  to  a  log  with  something  growing 
on  it. 

"  What  beautiful  moss  !  " 

"  Moss,  indeed  !  "  said  one  of  the  Joblilies  ;  "  that  is 
a  colony  of  small  animals,  all  fast  to  one  stem." 

"  They  have  an  easy  time  of  it,  I  suppose,"  said  Lazy 
Larkin  ;  "  they  don't  have  to  travel,  for  they  cannot 
move." 

"  True,  but  these  beautiful,  transparent  moss  animals 
have  to  get  their  living  by  catching  creatures  so  small  that 

you  cannot  see  them.     They  have  great  numbers  of  little 

I 
fingers  or  feelers  that  are  going  all  the  time." 

Larkin  touched  one,  and  it  immediately  drew  itself  in, 
— really  swallowed  itself ;  for  these  little  things  take  this 
way  of  saving  themselves  from  harm. 

And  so  Larkin  swam  on,  and  found  that  it  was  a  busy 
world  beneath  the  lake.  He  saw  mussels  slowly  crawling 
through  the  sand  ;  he  found  that  the  pickerel,  which  he 
had  supposed  idle,  was  really  standing  guard  over  her 
nest,  and  fanning  the  water  with  her  fins  all  day  long,  that 
a  current  of  fresh  water  might  be  supplied  to  her  eggs. 
And  all  the  time  the  Joblilies  kept  singing — 


THE   JOBLILIES.  IOQ 


"Work!  work! 
Never  shirk ! 
There  is  work  for  you, 
Work  for  all  to  do  ! 
Happy  they  who  do  it, 
They  that  shirk  shall  rue  it ! " 

And  after  their  long  swim  around  the  lake,  the  Job- 
lilies  came  back  to  Duck  Point  again,  and  climbed  out  on 
the  lily  leaves.  No  sooner  had  Larkin  seated  himself 
with  the  rest  than  he  heard  a  great  owl  cry,  "  Tu-whit  ! 
tu-whoo  ! " 

Immediately  the  Joblilies  leaped  into  the  air,  and  the 
whole  hundred  of  them  dashed  into  the  water  like  so  many 
bull-frogs,  crying,  as  they  came  down, 

"What  will  the  Joblily  do, 
When  the  great  owl  cries  tu-whoo  ?" 

Larkin  looked  around  suddenly  to  see  whither  they 
had  gone,  but  could  discover  no  trace  of  them.  A  mo 
ment  after,  he  found  himself  sitting  under  the  same  tree 
that  he  was  under  when  the  Joblilies  came  for  him.  The 
boys  had  gone,  and  he  was  forced  to  walk  home  alone. 
He  thought  carefully  over  his  trip  with  the  Joblilies,  and, 
I  am  glad  to  say,  gradually  learned  to  be  more  industri 
ous,  though  it  took  him  a  long  while  to  overcome  his  lazy 
habits,  and  still  longer  to  get  rid  of  the  name  of  Lazy  Lar- 


HO  QUEER   STORIES. 


kin.     But  he  remembered  the  jingle  of  the  Joblilies,  and 
I  trust  you  will  not  forget  it : 

"Work!  work! 

Never  shirk ! 
There  is  work  for  you, 
Work  for  all  to  do  ! 
Happy  they  who  do  it, 
They  that  shirk  shall  rue  it ! " 


THE  PICKANINNY. 

T  T  was  rather  a  warm  day  in  autumn.  Aunt  Cheerie 
•*•  had  given  the  sewing-machine  and  the  piano  a  holi 
day,  and  was  sitting  in  the  woodshed,  paring  apples  for 
preserves.  Wherever  Aunt  Cheerie  was,  the  children  were 
sure  to  be  ;  and  so  there  was  Sunbeam,  knife  in  hand, 
and  Fairy,  cutting  a  paring  something  less  than  half  an 
inch  thick,  while  the  dear  little  Chicken  was  wiping  apples 
for  the  others  to  pare,  and  little  Tow-head,  baby-brother, 
was  trying  to  upset  the  peach-box,  in  which  were  a  couple 
of  pet  chickens,  that  were  hatched  out  too  late,  and  that 
had  to  be  kept  in-doors  to  secure  them  from  Jack  Frost. 
For  you  must  know  that  at  "The  Nest"  Sunbeam  is 
called  the  "Old  Hen."  That  is,  she  has  charge  of  the 
chickens.  They  know  her  so  well  that,  when  she  feeds 
them,  they  fly  up  on  her  shoulders  and  eat  out  of  her 
hands.  And  if  there  is  any  unfortunate  one,  it  is  well 
cared  for.  One  poor,  little  wayward  pullet  wandered  into 
our  neighbor's  garden.  She  was  very  naughty,  doubt 
less,  but  she  got  severely  punished  ;  for  our  neighbor 
thinks  a  great  deal  of  his  garden,  and  not  much  of  chick 
ens,  unless  they  are  fricasseed.  He  shot  at  our  little  run- 


112  QUEER   STORIES. 


away  pullet,  and  the  poor  thing  came  home  dragging  a 
broken  and  useless  leg.  Now,  if  any  chicken  ever  had 
good  care,  our  little  "  Lamey  "  has.  After  weary  weeks 
of  suffering  in  hot  weather,  it  is  at  last  able  to  walk  on 
both  feet,  though  the  broken  leg  is  sadly  crooked.  The 
children  do  not  object  to  having  the  other  chickens  killed 
for  the  table,  but  little  Lamey's  life  is  insured. 

But  how  did  I  get  to  talking  about  chickens  ?  I  was 
going  to  say  that  when  I  came  home,  and  found  the  folks 
paring  apples,  I  went  out  in  the  shed,  too,  and  sat  down 
by  the  Little  Chick. 

And  Chicken  Little  jerked  her  head  and  looked  mis 
chievously  out  of  her  bright  eyes,  and  said  :  "  See  how 
nice  we  is  peelin'  apples.  We's  makin'  peserves,  we  is ; 
'cause  they  is  good  to  eat,  they  is.  And  you  mus'  tell 
me  a  story,  you  mus',  'cause  I'm  a-helpin'  Aunt  Cheerie, 
I  am." 

For  you  must  know  that  the  Small  Chick  is  not  very 
polite,  and  doesn't  say  "  please,"  when  she  can  help  it. 

"  Lend  us  a  hand  at  the  apples,  too,"  said  Aunt 
Cheerie. 

"  No,  I  can't  tell  stories  and  pare  apples,  too." 

"  Does  you  need  your  ringers  to  tell  stories  wid,  like 
the  dumbers  that  we  heard  talk  without  saying  any 
thing  ?  " 

Chicken  Small  had  been  to  an  exhibition  of  Professor 
Gillett's  deaf  and  dumb  pupils. 


THE    PICKANINNY.  1 13 

"  Well,  no,"  I  said  ;  "  but  you  see,  Chicken,  I  never 
could  make  my  tongue  and  my  fingers  go  at  the  same 
time." 

"  I  should  think  you  had  never  done  much  with  your 
ringers,  then,"  said  Aunt  Cheerie ;  "for  I  never  knew 
your  tongue  to  be  still,  except  when  you  were  asleep." 

I  felt  a  little  anxious  to  change  the  subject,  and  so  be 
gan  the  story  at  once. 

"  Little  Sukey  Gray " 

*'  What  a  funny  name  !  "  cried  the  Fairy. 

Yes,  and  a  funny  girl  was  Sukey  Gray.  She  had  yel 
low  hair  that  was  tied  up  in  an  old-fashioned  knot,  behind, 
though  she  was  only  eleven  years  old  ;  for  you  must  know 
that  Sukey  lived  in  a  part  of  the  country  where  chignons 
and  top-knots  of  the  latest  style  were  unknown.  Now 
Sukey's  way  of  doing  up  her  hair  in  a  great  knot,  behind, 
with  an  old-fashioned  tuck  comb,  was  not  pretty.  But 
Susan  Gray  lived  in  what  was  called  the  "  White- Oak 
Flats  ;  "  a  region  sometimes  called  the  "  Hoop-Pole  Coun 
try."  It  was  not  the  most  enlightened  place  in  the  world, 
for  there  was  no  school,  except  for  a  short  time  in  winter, 
and  the  people  were  very  superstitious,  believing  that  if 
they  carried  a  hoe  through  the  house,  or  broke  a  looking- 
glass,  somebody  "  would  die  before  long,"  and  thinking 
that  a  screech-owl's  scream  and  the  howling  -of  a  dog 
were  warnings  ;  and  that  potatoes  must  be  planted  in  the 

"  dark   of  the  moon,"   because  they  grew  underground, 
8 


114  QUEER    STORIES. 


and  corn  in  the  "light  of  the  moon,"  because  it  grew 
above  ground  ;  and  that  hogs  must  be  killed  in  the  in 
crease  of  the  moon,  to  keep  the  pork  from  frying  away 
to  gravy  ! 

As  Sukey  had  always  lived  in  the  White-Oak  Flats, 
she  did  not  know  that  they  were  dreary,  for  she  was  al 
ways  happy,  doing  her  work  cheerfully.  But  one  of  Su 
san's  cousins,  who  lived  a  hundred  miles  away,  had  made 
her  a  visit.  This  cousin,  like  Sukey,  lived  in  the  country, 
but  she  had  plenty  of  books  and  had  read  many  curious 
and  wonderful  things,  with  which  she  was  accustomed  to 
delight  Sukey. 

But  when  Cousin  Annie  was  gone,  Sukey  found  the 
Flats  a  dreary  place.  She  wished  there  were  some  pa 
godas,  such  as  they  have  in  India,  or  that  there  were 
some  cannibals  living  near  her.  She  thought  if  she  were 
rich,  she  would  buy  an  omnibus,  with  four  "  blaze-faced  " 
sorrel  horses,  to  drive  for  her  own  amusement.  She  got 
tired  of  the  pumpkins  and  cabbages,  and  longed  for 
grizzly  bears  and  red  Indians.  She  hated  to  wash  dishes 
and  feed  the  chickens,  but  thought  she  would  like  to  be  a 
slave  on  a  coffee  plantation  in  Ceylon. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  she  sighed,  "  I  wish  I  was  out  of  the 
Hoop-Pole  Country.  There  is  nothing  beautiful  or  curious 
in  these  fiats.  I  am  tired  of  great  yellow  sunflowers  and 
hollyhocks  and  pumpkin  blossoms.  I  wish  I  could  see 
something  curious  or  beautiful." 


THE   PICKANINNY.  115 


Now,  isn't  it  strange  that  any  little  girl  should  talk  so, 
with  plenty  of  birds  and  trees  and  sunshine  ?  But  so  it  is 
with  most  of  us.  We  generally  refuse  to  enjoy  what  is  in 
our  reach,  and  long  for  something  that  we  cannot  get. 
Just  as  Chicken  Little,  here,  always  wants  milk  when 
there  is  none,  and  always  asks  for  tea  when  you  offer  her 
milk. 

"  Well,  'cause  I'm  firsty,  that's  the  reason,"  said  the 
Chicken. 

Now,  when  Sukey  said  this,  she  was  up  in  the  loft,  or 
second  story,  if  you  could  call  it  story,  of  her  father's 
house.  She  sat  on  a  bench,  looking  out  of  the  gable  win 
dow  at  the  old  stick  chimney,  made  by  building  a  square 
cob-house  arrangement  of  sticks  of  wood,  tapering  toward 
the  top,  and  plastering  it  with  clay.  The  top  of  the  chim 
ney  was  surrounded  by  a  barrel  with  both  ends  open., 
through  which  the  smoke  climbed  lazily  up  into  the  air. 
Near  by  stood  an  oak-tree,  in  which  a  jay-bird  was 
screaming  and  dancing  in  a  jerky  way.  Sukey  then  looked 
away  into  the  blue  sky,  and  the  clouds  seemed  to  become 
pagodas,  and  palm-trees,  and  golden  ships  floating  drow 
sily  away.  .  All  at  once  she  heard  somebody  say,  in  a 
queer,  birdlike  voice — 

"Pray,  look  this  way,  little  Sukey  Gray.  May 
I  make  bold  to  say  you  are  looking  grum  to-day  ? 
You  neither  laugh  nor  play ;  now  what's  the  reason, 
pray  ?  " 


n6  QUEER  STORIES. 


Sukey  started  up  to  see  where  this  funny  jingle  came 
from.  There,  in  the  oak-tree,  where  the  jay-bird  had 
stood  a  few  minutes  before,  was  a  queer-looking  little 
chap,  in  blue  coat  and  pants,  with  a  top-knot  cap  and  a 
rather  sharp  nose.  He  looked  a  little  like  a  jay-bird,  but 
had  a  most  comical  face  and  blinky  eyes,  and  brought 
his  words  out  in  short  jerks,  making  them  rhyme  in  an 
odd  sort  of  jingle.  And  all  the  time  he  was  dancing  and 
laughing  and  turning  rapid  somersaults,  as  if  the  little 
blue  coat  could  hardly  hold  so  much  fun. 

"Well,  now,"  broke  out  Sukey,  "you  are  the  only 
curious  thing  in  all  the  Hoop  Pole  Country.  I've  been 
wishing  for  something  odd  or  strange,  and  I  am  glad  you 
have  come,  for  there  is  nothing  beautiful  or  curious  in  all 
the  White-Oak  Flats." 

"Why,  Sukey  Gray!  What's  that  you  say?  You 
must  be  blind  as  a  pumpkin  rind,  or  a  leather-winged  bat  ; 
this  White-Oak  Flat  is  just  the  place  to  look  the  beauti 
ful  right  in  the  face.  Now  come  with  me,  and  we  will 
see  that  the  little  bee,  or  this  great  oak  tree,  or  the  bright, 
blue  skies,  are  beautiful  things,  if  we  open  our  eyes." 

All  the  while  the  little  fellow  was  getting  off  this  queer 
speech,  he  was  swinging  and  tumbling  along  up  the  great 
limb  that  reached  out  toward  the  window  at  which  Sukey 
sat.  By  the  time  he  had  finished  it,  he  was  standing  on 
the  window-sill,  where  he  had  alighted  after  a  giddy 
somersault.  He  laughed  heartily — so  heartily  that  Sukey 


THE    PICKANINNY. 


laughed,  too,  though  she  could  not  tell  why.  Then  he 
took  off  his  cap,  and  said, 

"  A  pickaninny,  at  your  service,  Sukey  Gray  !  Will 
you  take  a  walk  with  me  to-day  ?  Now  jump,  while  you 
may  !  "  and  he  took  hold  of  her  two  hands  and  jumped, 
and  she  jumped  after  him,  feeling  as  light  as  a  feather. 

They  alighted  on  the  branch  of  the  oak-tree.  He  im 
mediately  began  to  pull  lichens  off  the  bark,  and  show 
Sukey  how  curious  they  were.  He  showed  her  how 
curiously  one  kind  of  lichen  grew  upon  another,  omitting 
its  own  stalk  and  leaves,  and  making  use  of  those  of  the 
other.  Then  he  laughed  at  her,  because  he  had  found 
curious  things  within  ten  feet  of  her  window. 

Next  he  took  her  to  her  own  rosebush,  and  showed 
her  how  the  limbs  were  swelled  in  some  places.  Then 
breaking  off  the  twig,  he  placed  it  against  a  tree,  and  be 
gan  to  pound  it  with  his  fist.  But  his  little  arm  was  not 
strong,  and  he  had  to  strike  it  several  times  before  he 
could  break  it  open.  When  it  did  fly  open,  Sukey  started 
back  at  seeing  it  full  of  plant-lice,  or  aphides. 

"Now,"  said  the  pickaninny,  "in  this  little  house 
what  curious  things  !  -These  little  aphides  have  no  wings. 
But  their  great-great-grandfathers,  and  their  great-great- 
grandmothers  had.  Their  mothers  and  grandmothers  and 
great-grandmothers  had  none,  and  their  children  will  have 
none,  and  their  grandchildren  will  have  none,  and  their 
great-grandchildren  will  have  none  ;  but  their  great-great- 


Il8  QUEER   STORIES. 


grandchildren  will  have  wings  again,  for  every  ninth  gen 
eration  can  fly." 

"  How  curious  !  "  said  Sukey. 

Then  the  pickaninny  found  a  swamp  blackbird's  nest, 
and  showed  her  how  strangely  it  was  made  ;  then  they 
climbed  down  the  chimney  of  the  school-house,  and  he 
showed  her  how  the  chimney  swallow  glued  her  nest  to 
gether  ;  and  he  coaxed  a  katydid  to  fiddle  with  his  wings, 
that  she  might  see  that.  At  last  they  entered  the  pump 
kin  patch. 

"Well,"  said  Sukey,  "there's  nothing  curious  here. 
I  know  all  about  pumpkins." 

With  that  the  pickaninny  commenced  to  jump  up  and 
down  on  one,  but  he  was  so  light  that  he  could  not  break 
it.  He  kept  jumping  higher  and  higher ;  now  he  was 
bouncing  up  ten  feet  in  the  air,  then  fifteen,  then  twenty, 
until  at  last  he  leaped  up  as  high  as  the  top  of  the  oak- 
tree,  and  coming  down,  he  struck  his  heels  through  the 
pumpkin.  Sukey  laughed  till  the  tears  ran  off  her  chin. 
The  pickaninny  thrust  his  arm  in  and  took  out  a  seed. 
Then  breaking  that  open,  he  showed  Susan  that  the  inside 
of  a  pumpkin  seed  was  two  white  leaves,  the  first  leaves 
of  the  young  pumpkin  vine.  And  so  an  hour  passed 
while  the  pickaninny  showed  her  many  curious  things,  of 
which  I  have  not  time  to  tell  you. 

At  last  he  said,  "  Now,  Sukey  Gray,  pray  let  me  fly 
away  ! " 


THE   PICKANINNY.  119 


"  I  shall  not  keep  you  if  you  want  to  go,"  said  Susan. 

"  Then  pluck  the  mistletoe,  and  let  me  go." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  cannot  go  until  you  pluck  the  mistletoe." 

Sukey  pulled  a  piece  of  mistletoe  from  the  limb  where 
they  were  standing,  and  he  bowed  and  said, 

"  Now,  Sukey  Gray,  good-day.  Don't  waste  your 
sighs,  but  use  your  eyes." 

With  that  he  leaped  into  the  air.  Susy  looked  up, 
but  there  was  only  the  bluejay,  crying,  "  Jay  !  jay  !  jay  !" 
in  a  peevish  way,  and  herself  looking  out  the  window. 

"What  a  wonderful  country  the  White-Oak  Flats 
must  be,"  she  said.  And  the  more  she  used  her  eyes, 
the  more  she  was  satisfied  that  the  Hoop-Pole  Country 
was  the  most  wonderful  in  the  world. 


THE  GREAT  PANJANDRUM  HIMSELF. 

/CHICKEN  LITTLE  was  a  picture,  sitting  on  the 
^-^  floor  by  the  window,  with  a  stereoscope — "the 
thing  'at  you  look  fru,"  she  calls  it — in  her  hand,  and  the 
pictures  scattered  about  her. 

Now  some  of  the  children  think  that  I  have  been 
"  making  up"  Chicken  Little,  and  that  there  is  no  such  a 
being.  A  few  weeks  ago,  after  I  had  been  talking  to  a 
great  church  full  of  people,  there  came  up  to  me  a  very 
sweet  little  girl. 

"  Do  you  write  stories  in  The  Little  Corporal?"  she 
asked. 

When  I  told  her  I  did,  she  looked  up,  and  asked, 
earnestly,  "  Well,  is  there  any  real,  live  Chicken  Little  ?  " 

Now  there  may  be  others  of  the  great  army  of  The 
Little  Corporal  that  want  to  know  whether  there  is  any 
"real,  live  Chicken  Little."  I  tell  you  there  is.  If  you 
could  see  her  merry  mischievous  face  ;  if  you  could  see 
her  when  she  stands  up  on  my  shoulders  like  a  mon 
key  ;  if  you  had  heard  her,  yesterday,  explain  that  God 
could  see  in  the  stove  when  all  the  doors  were  shut  ;  if 
you  could  see  how  she  always  manages  to  do  what  you 


THE    GREAT   PANJANDRUM    HIMSELF.  121 


don't  want  her  to  do,  and  then  find  a  good  excuse  for  it 
afterward ;  you  would  think  there  was  a  live,  real 
"  Chicken  Little."  If  you  could  have  seen  the  old,  funny 
twinkle  in  her  eye,  when  I  found  her  with  the  stereoscope, 
you  would  have  thought  she  was  a  real,  live  Chicken, 
sure  enough. 

"  Now,  then,  you've  got  to  tell  me  a  story,"  she  said. 

tft  Got  to'  don't  tell  stories." 

4<  Well,  p'ease  tell  me  one,  then." 

''Yes,"  said  Sunbeam,  peeping  in,  "  about  the  Great 
Panjandrum  himself." 

"Ah!  you   little  mink,"  I   said,   "how  did   you  get 
hold  of  my  secret  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  knew  it  all  the  time." 

Now,  you  see,  the  case  was  this  ;  I  did  not  know  that 
the  children  understood  where  the  names  of  the  Garuly 
and  the  Joblily,  and  the  Pickaninny  came  from.  But 
Sunbeam,  who  dips  a' little  here  and  there  into  a  great 
many  books,  and  who  never  forgets  anything  she  hears, 
had  somehow  gotten  hold  of  my  secret.  It  was  this. 
There  was  a  man  who  could  repeat  whatever  he  read 
once.  One  of  his  friends  undertook  to  write  something 
that  he  could  not  remember.  So  he  wrote  nonsense,  and 
the  man  with  the  long  memory  failed  to  remember  it. 
The  nonsense,  which  I  read  when  I  was  a  boy,  is,  if  I  re 
member  it  rightly,  as  follows  : 

"  She  went  into  the  garden  to  cut  a  cabbage  leaf  to 


122  QUEER    STORIES. 


make  an  apple  pie  ;  and  a  great  she-bear  coming  down 
the  street  thrust  his  head  into  the  shop.  '  What,  no  soap  ?  ' 
So  he  died,  and  she  very  imprudently  married  the  barber. 
And  there  were  present  the  Garulies,  and  the  Joblilies, 
and  the  Pickaninnies,  and  the  Great  Panjandrum  himself, 
with  his  little,  round  button-at-the-top  ;  and  they  all  fell 
to  playing  the  game  of  '  Catch-as-catch-can,'  till  the  gun 
powder  ran  out  at  the  heels  of  their  boots." 

Now  you  see  where  the  Garulies  and  the  Joblilies  and 
the  Pickaninnies  came  from.  And  that's  why  the  chil 
dren  thought  the  next  story  should  be  about  the  Great 
Panjandrum.  And  so  I  began  : 

I  was  wandering,  one  day,  in  the  Land  of  Nod,  in  that 
part  of  it  known  as  the  state  of  Dreams,  and  in  the  county 
of  Sleep,  and  in  Doze  township,  not  far  from  the  village 
of  Shuteyetown,  in  Sleepy  Hollow,  where  stands  the 
Church  of  the  Seven  Sleepers,  on  the  corner  of  Snoring 
Lane  and  Sluggard  Avenue,  near  Slumber  Hall,  owned 
by  the  Independent  Association  of  Sleepy-headed  Nin 
compoops. 

"  What  a  place  !  "  said  Fairy. 

Well,  as  I  was  going  to  say,  I  was  walking  through 
Sleepy  Hollow,  when  I  met  some  children. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  We  want  to  find  a  four-leaved  clover  and  a  beetle 
with  one  eye,"  said  one  of  them  ;  "  for  if  we  can  find 
them,  we  shall  be  able  to  get  into  the  Great  Panjandrum's 


THE    GREAT    PANJANDRUM    HIMSELE.  123 

place,  and  there  we  can  learn  whether  there  is  a  bag  of 
gold  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow  or  not." 

Now,  I  was  seized  with  a  great  desire  to  see  the  illus 
trious  Panjandrum  for  myself,  and  to  know  what  he  had 
to  say  of  that  wonderful  bag  of  gold  that  was  to  be  found 
at  the  place  where  the  rainbow  touched  the  ground.  And 
so  I  fell  to  work  with  the  happy  boys  and  girls,  looking 
for  a  one-eyed  beetle  and  a  four-leaved  clover.  The  clover 
was  soon  found,  but  it  was  a  long  time  before  we  got  the 
beetle.  At  last  we  came  to  a  log  on  which  two  of  that 
sort  of  beetles  that  children  call  "  pinch-bugs "  were 
fighting.  Whether  they  were  prize-fighters,  engaged  in 
a  combat  for  one  thousand  dollars  a  side,  or  whether  they 
were  fighting  a  duel  about  some  affair  of  honor,  I  do  not 
know  ;  but  I  did  notice  that  they  fought  most  brutally, 
scratching  away  savagely  on  each  other's  hard  shells, 
without  doing  a  great  deal  of  damage,  however.  But 
one  of  them  had  lost  one  eye  in  the  fight,  and  so  we 
seized  him  and  made  off,  leaving  the  other  to  snap  his 
tongs  together  in  anger  because  he  had  nobody  to  pinch. 
It  must  be  a  dreadful  thing  to  want  to  hurt  somebody 
and  have  nobody  to  hurt. 

When  we  had  gone  some  distance,  we  came  to  a  gate 
that  had  a  very  curious  sign  over  it.  It  read,  "THE 
GREAT  PANJANDRUM  HIMSELF."  There  was  a  Garuly 
with  a  club  standing  by  the  gate,  and  a  Pickaninny,  in  a 
blue  coat  with  a  long  tail,  hopping  around  on  top  of  it. 


124  QUEER   STORIES. 


We  showed  the  one-eyed  beetle  and  the  four-leaved  clover, 
and  the  Garuly  immediately  hit  the  gate  a  ringing  blow 
with  his  club,  and  shouted,  "  Beetle  !  beetle  !  beetle  !  "  in 
a  wonderfully  sharp  and  squeaking  voice,  while  the  Picka 
ninny  on  top  jerked  a  little  bell  rope,  and  sung  out  "  Clo 
ver."  Then  we  could  see  through  the  gate  a  Joblily  lift 
ing  his  head  up  out  of  a  pond,  inside  the  enclosure. 

"  How  many  eyes  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  One,"  said  the  Garuly. 

"  How  many  leaves  ?  "  he  said,  again. 

"  Four,"  returned  the  Pickaninny. 

"  Then  let  them  in  that  they  may  see  the  Great  Pan 
jandrum  himself,  and  learn  whether  there  be  a  bag  of  gold 
at  the  end  of  the  rainbow."  Saying  this  the  Joblily  went 
under  the  water  and  the  gate  opened. 

We  passed  three  gates,  that  were  opened  in  the  same 
manner,  and  found  ourselves  in  front  of  a  queer  old  house, 
with  seventy-seven  gables  and  ever  so  many  doors,  and 
over  every  door  was  written,  '*  THE  GREAT  PANJAN 
DRUM  HIMSELF."  There  was  a  great  bustle  about  the 
place,  dried-up  Garulies  running  around,  dandy-looking 
Pickaninnies  hopping  about,  and  Joblilies  swimming  in 
the  lake.  We  asked  what  it  all  meant,  and  were  told  that 
"  she  was  going  to  marry  the  barber  ;  "  and  then  they  all 
tittered,  and  we  could  not  for  the  life  of  us  tell  what  this 
pother  meant.  When  we  told  a  Garuly  that  we  wanted 
to  see  the  Great  Panjandrum  himself,  and  to  find  out 


THE   GREAT   PANJANDRUM   HIMSELF.  12$ 

whether  there  was  a  bag  of  gold  at  the  end  of  the  rain 
bow,  he  took  our  one-eyed  beetle,  and  gave  the  four- 
leaved  clover  to  a  Pickaninny.  Together  they  took  them 
into  the  house,  and  a  Joblily  came  out  in  a  moment  to  tell 
us  that  the  Great  Panjandrum  was  having  his  little  round 
button-at-the-top  brushed  up,  and  that  if  we  chose  we 
could  wait  for  him  in  the  museum. 

The  museum  was  a  queer  place.  It  was  just  inside 
the  seventy-seventh  gable  of  the  house.  There  was  an 
old  Garuly  who  acted  as  showman.  We  first  stopped  be 
fore  a  cage  that  contained  a  crazy  mouse.  "  This,"  said 
the  showman,  "  is  the  mouse  that  ran  up  the  clock.  Just 
as  he  got  up  there,  the  clock  struck  one,  and  though  the 
poor  fellow  ran  back  again,  he  has  never  been  right  since. 
This  long  slender  cow,  that  you  see,  has  a  great  taste  for 
music.  She  is  the  one  that  jumped  over  the  moon  when 
the  cat  played  the  fiddle.  The  cat  has  never  been  al 
lowed  to  play  since.  This  is  the  little  dog  that  laughed  on 
that  occasion.  He  was  so  much  amused  that  he  has  never 
been  able  to  get  his  face  straight  since.  In  this  pot  you 
see  some  of  the  cold  plum  porridge,  with  the  eating  of 
which  the  man  in  the  South  burnt  his  mouth.  Here  is  a 
portrait  of  the  man  in  the  moon,  when  he  came  down  too 
soon  to  inquire  the  way  to  Norwich.  In  one  of  the  other 
gables  of  this  house  I  can  show  you  Mother  Goose's  cap 
frill.  And  here  is  the  arrow  with  which  Cock  Robin  was 
cruelly  murdered  by  the  sparrow.  This  is  the  original 


126  QUEER   STORIES. 


and  genuine  arrow  ;  all  others  are  humbugs.  This  is  the 
bone  that  Mother  Hubbard  went  to  look  for,  but  failed 
to  find.  Here  are  the  skates  on  which  the 

"Three  boys  went  a- skating 

All  on  a  summer's  day, 
They  all  fell  in, 

And  the  rest  ran  away." 

And  here  is  the  skin  of  the  wolf  that  Little  Red  Riding- 
hood  met  in  the  woods." 

I  was  just  going  to  inquire  of  him  which  was  the  true 
version  of  that  story,  whether  the  wolf  really  ate  Little 
Red  Ridinghood  up,  or  whether  she  ate  the  wolf ;  but 
before  I  got  a  chance,  a  Joblily  came  in  to  say  that  the 
Great  Panjandrum  himself  was  coming,  and  soon  the 
queerest  little,  old,  round,  fat  man  came  in,  puffing  like  a 
porpoise,  and  rolling  from  side  to  side  as  he  walked.  His 
hair  looked  like  sea  grass,  and  was  partly  covered  by  a 
queer  concern,  nothing  less  than  the  celebrated  "  little 
round  button-at-the-top." 

"  And  so  you  want  to  see  whether  there  is  really  a 
bag  of  gold  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow,  do  you  ?  Well, 
I'll  show  you,  though  I  haven't  much  time,  for  he  died  last 
week,  and  she  very  imprudently  intends  to  marry  the 
barber." 

This  is  what  the  Panjandrum  said,  and  we  never 
could  tell  who  "she"  was,  nor,  indeed,  whom  &e  meant 
by  the  barker. 


THE    GREAT   PANJANDRUM    HIMSELF.  I2/ 

"  Pickaninnies,  open  the  wonderful  Pantoscopticon, 
and  let  them  see." 

The  wonderful  Pantoscopticon  was  brought  out,  and 
we  were  allowed  to  look  in  it. 

There  were  holes  enough  for  us  all  to  see,  and  we  be 
held  several  rainbows  in  one  sky.  On  one  of  them  was 
marked  "  Get  and  keep,"  on  another  "  Eat,  drink,  and  be 
merry,"  besides  some  that  were  too  far  away  for  me  to 
read.  There  was  one  that  had  an  inscription  in  unknown 
letters  that  shone  with  their  own  light.  Though  I  could 
not  read  the  words,  they  reminded  me  somehow  of  the 
Latin  sentence  which  I  once  read  over  the  gate  of  a  park 
belonging  to  the  richest  duke  in  England,  which  says, 
that  goodness  is  the  only  true  nobility,  or  something  of 
the  sort. 

All  the  time  we  were  looking  the  Great  Panjandrum 
Himself,  with  his  little  round  button-at-the-top  on  his 
head,  was  turning  a  crank  in  the  side  of  the  wonderful 
Pantoscopticon,  which  had  a  hopper  on  the  top  of  it  like 
that  of  an  old-fashioned  coffee-mill.  As  he  turned  he  kept 
puffing  out  : 

"  If  you  want  to  find  out  whether  there  is  any  gold  at 
the  end  of  the  rainbow,  please  walk  up  the  ladder,  get 
into  the  hopper,  and  be  ground  down  to  a  proper  size." 
He  hissed  out  the  word  size,  drawing  it  as  long  as  his 
breath  would  hold. 

I  didn't  know  what  his  words  meant  until  a  lady  with 


128  QUEER   STORIES. 


a  red  parasol  went  round  behind  the  Pantoscopticon  and 
climbed  to  the  top.  After  looking  down  at  the  rattling 
wheels  of  the  machinery  a  moment,  she  jumped  into  the 
hopper,  just  as  the  Panjandrum  came  round  again  to  the 
word  "  s — i — z — e."  I  looked  into  the  machine  and  had 
the  satisfaction  to  see  this  lady  come  out,  not  in  pieces  as 
I  expected,  but  looking  just  as  she  did  when  she  went  in, 
except  that  she  was  reduced  to  rather  less  than  an  inch  in 
height.  Her  parasol  was  a  mere  rose-leaf  for  size — about 
as  big  as  a  silver  three-cent  piece.  A  gentleman  with  a 
white  hat,  whom  I  had  seen  walking  through  the  museum 
with  this  lady,  and  who  seemed  to  be  her  husband,  stood 
looking  into  the  peep-holes  when  she  came  out.  He  cried  : 

"  Hold  on,  Amanda,  and  I'll  go  with  you  to  see  about 
the  rainbows  and  the  pot  of  gold." 

But  the  little  lady  with  the  red  parasol  didn't  seem  to 
hear  him,  she  only  walked  ahead  eagerly  toward  the  rain 
bows.  The  gentleman  with  the  white  hat  rushed  up  the 
stairs  and  leaped  into  the  hopper  without  a  moment's 
pause,  and  the  Great  Panjandrum  Himself,  seeing  that 
the  man  was  in  a  hurry,  turned  the  crank  twice  as  fast  as 
before.  The  gentleman  was  caught  in  the  wheels  and 
sent  a- whirling.  When  he  came  to  the  bottom,  properly 
reduced,  the  speed  of  the  machinery  was  such  that  he  was 
thrown  out  with  a  shock  and  his  white  hat,  about  the  size 
of  a  doll's  thimble,  fell  off,  so  that  he  had  to  pick  it  up, 
crying  out  as  he  did  so  : 


THE    GREAT   PANJANDRUM    HIMSELF.  129 

"  Hold  on,  Amanda,  and  I'll  go  with  you." 
The  little  lady  with  the  red  parasol  seemed  to  hear 
him  this  time,  for  she  turned  her  head  long  enough  to  say 
something,  but  she  kept  walking  briskly  forward,  either 
because  she  couldn't  help  it,  or  more  likely  for  fear  some 
body  else  would  get  the  pot  of  gold  which,  as  everybody 
knows,  lies  at  the  end  of  a  rainbow.  However,  by  run 
ning,  the  little  inch-long  gentleman  caught  up  with  the 
seven-eighths  of  an  inch  lady,  and  the  two  went  along  to 
gether  to  find  the  pot  of  gold. 

Still  the  Great  Panjandrum  kept  toiling  at  the  crank, 
while  others  plunged  into  the  hopper  and  came  out 
"  ground  down  to  a  proper  size,"  as  the  Great  Panjan  kept 
saying.  Presently  some  of  the  children  who  had  come  in 
with  me  jumped  into  the  hopper  and  came  out  about  half 
an  inch  in  length.  The  others  followed,  and  I  went  up  to 
the  top  and  looked  at  the  whirling  wheels,  fearing  to  make 
the  leap.  But  at  last  I  became  fascinated  and  could  not 
take  away  my  eyes.  I  did  not  care  about  the  pot  of  gold, 
nor  about  the  rainbows,  nor  did  I  exactly  like  the  idea  of 
being  "  ground  down  to  a  proper  size."  But  I  looked  at 
the  wheels  until  I  became  dizzy,  and  at  length  fell  into  the 
whirl  and  was  pitched  and  turned  about  in  the  most  fright 
ful  way  until  I  came  out  at  the  bottom.  I  felt  as  big  as 
ever,  but  when  I  looked  up  and  saw  the  eyes  of  the  peo 
ple  staring  at  me  through  the  peep-holes  and  found  that 
these  eyes  were  nearly  as  large  across  as  I  was  tall,  I 
9 


I3O  QUEER    STORIES. 


knew  that  I  must  have  been  ground  down.  I  ran  after 
the  children  and  went  on  for  along  time,  trying  to  find  the 
ends  of  the  rainbows.  There  were  many  suns  in  the  sky 
and  many  rainbows,  but  no  pots  of  gold,  nor  would  the 
ends  of  the  rainbows  wait  for  us. 

At  length  we  came  to  the  one  written  over  with  un 
known  letters  that  shone  with  their  own  light.  This  one 
stood  still,  having  one  end  resting  in  a  low-lying  valley  and 
the  other  end  on  top  of  a  high  mountain,  which  was  very 
steep  and  difficult  to  climb.  At  the  lower  end  we  found 
an  earthen  pot  sealed  up,  which  the  gentleman  in  the 
white  hat  proceeded  to  open.  To  the  disappointment  of 
the  lady  with  the  red  parasol  and  all  of  us,  there  was  not 
a  piece  of  gold  in  it — only  a  paper  on  which  was  written, 

"  THE    GOLD    IS   AT    THE   HIGHEST    END    OF    THE   RAIN 
BOW." 

We  looked  up  the  mountain-side,  but  all  of  us  by  this 
time  felt  too  weary  and  lazy  to  scramble  up  the  cliffs, 
and  among  the  thorns  to  find  a  pot  of  gold.  Besides  we 
were  hungry,  and  not  a  little  uneasy  as  to  how  we  should 
get  back  our  proper  size.  A  ground-down  Pickaninny 
who  had  joined  us  proposed  to  hop  over  along  the  arch 
of  the  rainbow  and  see  whether  there  was  any  gold  on  the 
rnountain-top.  Being  very  light  he  easily  ran  up  the 
bow,  while  we,  anxious  to  get  out,  did  not  even  wait  for 
him  to  come  back,  but  hurried  down  the  long  road  to\vT 


THE   GREAT    PANJANDRUM    HIMSELF.  131 

ard  the  peep-holes  and  the  grinding-machine.  I  say  the 
long  road,  for  it  seemed  miles  to  us  little  people.  I  sup 
pose  we  had  travelled  twice  the  length  of  a  good-sized 
house  from  the  starting-point,  and  that  is  a  long  journey 
for  legs  so  short. 

All  the  way  we  wondered  how  we  should  get  out,  and 
whether  we  should  ever  regain  our  proper  stature.  When 
we  came  to  the  grinding  place  the  mill  was  still.  We  ac 
costed  an  old  Garuly  who  was  wandering  about. 

"  How  do  we  get  out  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Why,  by  getting  the  Great  Panjandrum  Himself  to 
set  the  thing  a-going  the  other  way/'  he  squeaked. 

Then  he  walked  to  a  speaking-tube  and  shouted  : 

"  O  Great  Pan,  grind  'em  upward." 

All  this  time  I  could  see  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  gentle 
men  looking  at  us  through  the  peep-holes,  and  their  eyes 
were  about  as  big  as  wagon-wheels  to  my  sight.  I  felt 
mean  to  be  stared  at  by  such  gigantic  goggle-eyed  creat 
ures. 

The  Panjandrum  did  not  start  the  wheels  at  once  be 
cause  he  was  looking  around  for  his  little  round  button- 
at-the-top  without  which  he  cannot  do  anything.  At 
length  when  the  wheels  were  set  a-going,  the  man  in  the 
white  hat  and  the  lady  with  the  red  parasol  went  up,  and 
I  was  just  about  to  climb  up  the  pipe  myself,  to  get  out 
of  the  glare  of  the  people's  eyes,  when  one  of  the  children 
cried  out : 


I32  QUEER   STORIES. 


"  O  sir  !  we'll  never  get  home.  We  can't  reach  the 
tube." 

So  I  took  hold  of  them  one  after  another  and  pushed 
them  up  the  spout  until  the  wheels  running  backward 
caught  them.  Whenever  a  boy  or  girl  slipped  out  of  my 
hands  I  would  soon  after  see  two  more  of  those  hateful 
big  eyes  looking  at  me  through  the  peep-holes.  All  the 
time  I  was  afraid  the  Panjandrum  Himself  would  quit 
turning  or  that  his  little  round  button-at-the-top  would 
blow  off  before  I  could  get  out.  And  just  as  I  thrust  the 
last  boy  up  the  spout  the  wheels  began  to  slacken. 

"  Quick,"  cried  the  Garuly,  "  the  Great  Pan  has  let  go 
of  the  machine.  Your  last  chance  for  to-day  is  to  get 
through  on  the  headway." 

I  climbed  in,  immediately,  but  I  could  feel  the  works 
gradually  stopping.  Slowly  my  head  and  my  body  came 
out  at  the  top,  but  the  wheels  stopped  stock-still  before 
my  left  foot  could  be  drawn  out.  It  was  only  by  slipping 
my  foot  out  of  my  boot  that  I  escaped. 

Just  as  I  got  out  there  came  along  the  Pickaninny  that 
had  gone  over  on  the  rainbow.  He  had  come  back  some 
other  way  known  to  Pickaninnies  and  had  in  his  arms  a 
pot  just  like  the  one  we  had  seen.  But  this  one  was  full, 
and  he  set  it  down  for  us  to  look  at.  There  were  doub 
loons  of  Spain,  there  were  pistoles,  guineas,  Arabian 
pieces,  Jewish  money,  coins  of  Alexander  the  Great,  and 
I  know  not  what  besides. 


THE   GREAT   PANJANDRUM    HIMSELF.  133 

While  we  were  examining  these,  a  Garuly  came  in  to 
say  that  the  she-bear  had  brought  the  soap,  and  that  the 
barber  was  waiting.  The  Great  Panjandrum,  in  a  state 
of  flustration,  hurried  past  us,  and  we,  not  knowing  what 
else  to  do,  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Just  then  a  Job- 
lily  went  by  with  a  cabbage  leaf. 

"What  is  that?  "  asked  one  of  the  little  girls  of  our 
party. 

"  A  cabbage  leaf  to  make  an  apple  pie,"  he  replied, 
without  looking  around. 

Presently  a  Pickaninny  came  along  with  a  small  keg 
in  his  hands. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  asked  the  same  curious  little  girl. 

"  Gunpowder  for  the  heels  of  their  boots,"  he  an 
swered,  and  went  on. 

And  a  spark  of  fire  from  one  of  the  seventy-seven 
chimneys  fell  into  the  keg,  and  there  was  a  frightful  explo 
sion. 

But  I  don't  think  it  was  the  Panjandrum's  house  that 
got  blown  up,  but  we  ourselves,  for  we  found  ourselves 
outside  in  the  woods  going  home  from  Shuteyetown.  I 
for  one  resolved  that  the  next  time  I  came  to  the  rainbow 
with  one  foot  in  the  valley  and  the  other  in  the  mountain, 
I  should  climb  to  the  upper  end  of  it. 


Stories  Told  on  a  Cellar-door, 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FLUTTER-WHEEL. 

T  T  7  HAT  queer  places  boys  have  of  assembling.  Some- 
*  *  times  in  one  place,  sometimes  in  another.  Hay 
mows,  river-banks,  threshing-floors,  these  were  the  old 
places  of  resort  for  country  boys.  And  nothing  was  so 
sweet  to  me,  when  I  was  a  boy,  as  the  newly  cut  clover- 
hay  where  I  sat  with  two  or  three  companions,  watching 
the  barn  swallows  chattering  their  incomprehensible  gab 
ble  and  gossip  from  the  doors  of  their  mud  houses  in  the 
rafters.  And  what  stories  we  told  and  what  talks  we  had. 
In  the  city  who  does  not  remember  the  old-fashioned  cel 
lar-door,  sloping  down  to  the  ground  ?  These  were  al 
ways  places  of  resort. 

Tom  Miller  was  the  minister's  son,  and  there  was  a 
party  of  boys  who  met  regularly  on  Parson  Miller's  cellar- 
door.  Mrs.  Miller  used  herself  to  listen  to  the  stories  they 
told,  as  she  sat  by  the  window  above  them,  though  they 
were  unconscious  of  her  presence.  They  were  boys  full 
of  life  and  ambition,  but  they  were  a  good  set  of  boys  on 
the  whole,  and  it  was  not  till  lessons  were  learned  and 
work  done  that  they  met  thus  on  the  cellar-door.  They 
belonged  to  the  same  class  in  school,  and  besides  were 


138  QUEER   STORIES. 


"cronies"  in  all  respects.  There  was  Tom  Miller,  the 
minister's  son,  who  intended  to  be  a  minister  himself,  and 
Jimmy  Jackson,  the  shoemaker's  boy,  as  full  of  fun  and 
playfulness  as  a  kitten,  and  poor  Will  Sampson,  who  stam 
mered,  and  Harry  Wilson,  the  son  of  a  wealthy  banker, 
and  a  brave  boy  too,  and  John  Harlan,  the  widow's  son, 
pale  and  slender,  the  pet  of  all,  and  great,  stout  Hans 
Schlegel,  who  bade  fair  to  be  a  great  scholar.  These 
half  dozen  were  nearly  always  on  the  cellar-door  for  half 
an  hour  on  Friday  evenings,  when  they  happened  to  have 
a  little  more  leisure  than  on  other  evenings. 

"  I  say,  boys,"  said  Hans,  "  I've  got  an  idea." 

"  How  strange  it  must  seem  to  you,"  said  Tom  Miller  ; 
whereupon  they  all  laughed,  good-natured  Hans  with  the 
rest. 

"  Do  let's  hear  it,"  said  Harry;  "there  has  not  been 
an  idea  in  this  crowd  for  a  month." 

"Well,"  said  Hans,  "let's  every  fellow  tell  a  story 
here  on  the  cellar  door,  turn  about,  on  Friday  evenings." 

"All  except  m-m-me,"  stammered  Sampson,  who  was 
always  laughing  at  his  own  defect ;  "  I  c-c-couldn't  g-g-get 
through  be-be-fore  midnight." 

"  Well,"  said  Miller,  "  we'll  make  Will  Sampson  chair 
man,  to  keep  us  in  order." 

They  all  agreed  to  this,  and  Sampson  moved  up  to  the 
top  of  the  cellar-door  and  said  :  "  G-g-gentlemen, 
th-th-this  is  th-th-the  proudest  m-m-moment  of  my 


THE   STORY   OF  A  FLUTTER- WHEEL.  139 

life.  I'm  president  of  the  C-c-cellar-d-d-door  C-club  ! 
M-m-many  thanks  !  Harry  Wilson  will  tell  the  first 
st-st-story." 

"  Agreed  !  "  said  the  boys.  After  thinking  a  minute, 
Harry  began. 

HARRY  WILSON'S  STORY. 

I  will  tell  you  a  story  that  my  father  told  me.  In  a 
village  in  Pennsylvania,  on  the  banks  of  the  Schuylkill 
River,  there  lived  a  wealthy  man. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,"  said  Jimmy  Jackson. 

"  B-be  st-still  !  Come  to  order  th-th-there,  Jackson," 
stammered  the  chairman,  and  the  story  went  on. 

Yes,  once  upon  a  time,  there  lived  a  wealthy  man  who 
had  two  sons.  The  father  was  very  anxious  to  make 
great  men  of  them,  or  at  least,  educated  men.  I  think, 
or  rather  my  father  thinks,  that  their  father  used  to  dream 
that  one  of  these  boys  would  grow  to  be  President,  and 
that  the  other  would  be  a  member  of  Congress,  at  any 
rate.  But  while  his  younger  son  grew  to  be  a  good  stu 
dent,  the  other  one  was  a  good,  honest,  industrious,  and 
intelligent  boy,  who  did  not  much  like  books.  His  father 
intended  to  make  him  a  lawyer,  and  he  got  on  well 
enough  in  Arithmetic  and  Geography,  but  Grammar  came 
hard,  and  when  he  got  into  Latin  he  blundered  dreadfully. 
He  studied  to  please  his  parents,  and  from  a  sense  of  duty, 


I4O  QUEER    STORIES. 


but  it  mortified  him  greatly  to  think  that  he  could  not 
succeed  as  the  other  boys  did.  For  you  know  it  is  hard 
to  succeed  at  anything  unless  your  heart  is  in  it.  And 
so  one  night  he  sat  down  and  cried  to  think  he  must  al 
ways  be  a  dolt.  His  mother  found  him  weeping  and 
tried  to  comfort  him.  She  walked  out  in  the  dusky 
evening  with  him  and  talked.  But  poor  David,  for 
that  was  his  name,  was  broken-hearted.  He  had  tried 
with  all  his  might  to  get  interested  in  "  Hie,  haec,  hoc," 
but  it  was  of  no  use.  He  said  there  was  something  lack 
ing  in  his  head.  "  And  I'll  never  amount  to  anything, 
never  !  Brother  Joe  gets  his  lesson  in  a  few  minutes, 
and  I  can't  get  mine  at  all." 

His  mother  did  not  know  what  to  say.  But  she  only 
said  that  there  was  some  use  for  everybody.  She  knew 
that  David  was  not  wanting  in  intelligence.  In  practical 
affairs  he  showed  more  shrewdness  than  his  brother.  But 
his  father  had  set  his  heart  on  making  him  a  scholar. 
That  very  day  the  teacher  had  said  to  his  father  that  it 
was  no  use. 

"  Your  father,"  she  said,  "  intends  to  take  you  from 
school,  and  it  is  a  great  disappointment  to  him.  But  we 
know  that  you  have  done  your  best,  and  you  must  not  be 
disheartened.  If  you  were  lazy,  we  should  feel  a  great 
deal  worse." 

Just  then  they  came  to  the  orchard  brook.  Here  she 
saw  in  the  dim  light  something  moving  in  the  water. 


THE   STORY   OF  A   FLUTTER-WHEEL.  141 

"  What  is  that,  David  ?  "  she  said. 

"That's  my  flutter- wheel,  and  I  feel  like  breaking  it 
to  pieces." 

"Why?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  all  the  boys  made  little  water-mills  to 
be  run  by  the  force  of  the  stream.  We  call  them  '  flutter- 
wheels.'  But  I  made  one  so  curious  that  it  beat  them 
all,"  he  said. 

"  Show  it  to  me,  Davie,"  she  said.  And  David  ex 
plained  it  to  her,  forgetting  all  about  his  unhappiness  in 
the  pleasure  of  showing  the  little  cog-wheels,  and  the 
under-shot  wheel  that  drove  it. 

"  And  why  did  you  want  to  break  it  up  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Because,  mother,  Sam  Peters  said  that  I  should 
never  be  good  for  anything  but  to  make  flutter-wheels, 
and  it  is  true,  I  am  afraid." 

"  If  you  were  a  poor  man's  son,  Davie,  you  might  be 
a  good  mechanic,"  said  his  mother. 

That  night  Davie  resolved  to  be  a  mechanic.  "  I 
won't  be  a  good-for-nothing  man  in  the  world.  If  I  can't 
be  a  learned  professor,  I  may  be  a  good  carpenter  or  a 
blacksmith.  If  I  learn  to  make  a  good  horseshoe,  I'll 
be  worth  something."  So  the  next  morning  he  asked 
his  father's  leave  to  enter  a  machine-shop.  His  father 
said  he  might,  and  with  all  the  school-boys  laughing  at 
him,  he  took  his  tin-pail  with  his  lunch  in  it,  and  went 
into  the  shop  each  morning.  And  now  he  began  to  love 


142  QUEER   STORIES. 


books,  too.  He  gathered  a  library  of  works  on  mechan 
ics.  Everything  relating  to  machinery  he  studied.  He 
took  up  mathematics  and  succeeded.  After  a  while  he 
rose  to  a  good  position  in  the  shop.  And  he  became  at 
last  a  great  railroad  engineer.  He  built  that  great  bridge 
at  Blankville. 

"  Why,"  said  John  Harlan,  "  I  thought  your  Uncle 
David  built  that." 

"  So  he  did,"  said  Harry.  "  My  uncle  was  the  boy 
that  could  not  learn  Latin." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Tom  Miller,  "  that  God  has  use  for 
us  all,  boys.  Perhaps  Jimmy's  father  was  as  much  in 
tended  to  make  shoes  as  mine  to  preach.  What  a  mistake 
it  must  be  to  get  into  the  wrong  place,  though." 

"  Come,  you're  getting  too  awfully  solemn,  Tom,"  said 
Jimmy  Jackson  ;  "  you'll  put  a  fellow  to  sleep  before  he 
has  time  to  go  to  bed."  And  Jackson  pretended  to 
snore. 

"The  m-m-meeting's  adjourned,"  said  the  president. 
"  Jimmy  Jackson  will  be  the  sp-speaker  at  the  n-next 
m-m-meeting  of  the  Cellar-d-door  S-society." 


THE  WOOD  CHOPPER'S  CHILDREN. 

r  I  ^HE  next  Friday  evening  found  all  the  members  of 
-*•  the  Cellar-door  Club  in  their  places.  Will  Sampson* 
the  stammering  "  chairman,"  was  at  the  top,  full  of  life 
and  fun  as  ever.  Jimmie  Jackson,  running  over  with  mis 
chief,  was  by  him,  then  came  Tom  Miller  and  John  Har- 
lan,  while  Hans  Schlegel  and  Harry  Wilson  sat  at  the  bot 
tom.  After  a  half-hour  spent  in  general  talk  about  school 
and  plays,  and  such  miscellaneous  topics  as  every  gather 
ing  of  boys  knows  how  to  discuss,  the  "  chairman  "  called 
out, 

"  Come  t-to  order  !  Th-th-the  C-cellar-d-d-door  So 
ciety  is  c-called  to  order.  G-g-gentlemen,  the  Hon. 
J-Jeems  Jackson  is  the  speaker  f-for  the  evening.  I 
h-have  the  pi-pleasure  of  introducing  him  to  you." 

"  No,  you  don't  !  "  said  the  shoemaker's  son  ;  "  don't 
put  it  on  so  thick.  If  you  want  me  to  tell  my  yarn  along 
with  the  rest  of  you,  why,  I'm  ready,  but  if  you  call  it  a 
speech,  you  scare  me  out  of  my  shoes,  just  like  the  man 
that  tried  to  make  a  speech  in  the  legislature,  but  couldn't 
get  any  farther  than  *  Mr.  Speaker,  I  am  in  favor  of  cart 
wheels  and  temperance.'  Or,  like  a  boy  I  knew,  who 


144  QUEER   STORIES. 


tried  to  declaim  the  speech  beginning:  '  Friends,  Romans, 
Countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears  !  '  and 'who  got  so  badly 
confused  on  the  first  line  that  he  said,  '  I'd  like  to  borrow 
your  ears  !  ' 

This  raised  a  laugh  at  the  expense  of  Harry  Wilson, 
who  had  broken  down  on  that  line,  though  he  did  not 
make  it  as  bad  as  Jimmy  represented  it. 

"  G-g-go  on  with  your  story  !  "  stammered  the  chair 
man,  and  Jackson  proceeded. 

JIMMY  JACKSON'S  STORY. 

There  lived  in  a  country  a  long  way  off — it  don't  mat 
ter  where — a  poor  wood-chopper  whose  name  was — let's 
see — well,  we  will  call  him  Bertram.  It  wasn't  the  fashion 
to  have  two  names  in  those  days,  you  know  ;  people 
couldn't  afford  it.  He  had  a  son,  whose  name  was  Ru 
dolph,  and  a  daughter,  Theresa.  The  boy  was  twelve 
and  the  girl  was  eleven  years  old.  The  wood-chopper 
earned  but  a  scanty  subsistence — that  means  an  awfully 
poor  living,  I  believe — and  the  children  soon  learned  to 
help  him.  Rudolph  and  Theresa  were  hard-working  and 
cheerful,  and  as  they  had  never  been  rich,  they  did  not 
know  what  it  was  to  be  poor.  That  is.  they  thought  they 
had  plenty,  because  they  never  had  any  more  ;  and  had  no 
time  to  sit  down  and  see  how  nice  it  would  be  to  have  a 
fine  house,  and  be  drawn  in  an  elegant  carriage.  But  one 


THE   WOOD-CHOPPER  S   CHILDREN.  145 

day  a  tree  fell  on  poor  Bertram,  and  he  was  carried  home 
with  a  broken  arm  and  leg.  I  suppose  if  he  had  been  rich 
enough  to  send  for  a  great  surgeon  that  lived  in  the  city, 
only  two  leagues  away,  he  would  have  recovered  without 
much  trouble,  but  poor  men  have  to  do  without  such  at 
tentions,  and  so  Bertram's  arm  and  leg,  which  were  fixed 
by  a  country  "bone-setter,"  were  so  crooked  that  he 
could  not  work.  And  now  the  burden  fell  heavily  on  the 
wife,  who  had  to  gather  berries  and  nuts  in  the  forests, 
which  she  loaded  on  the  donkey,  and  carried  away  to  the 
city  to  sell.  But  the  poor  woman  was  never  very  strong, 
and  this  extra  tax  was  fast  breaking  her  down. 

The  children  did  what  they  could,  but  it  was  not 
much.  After  working  hard  all  day,  they  amused  them 
selves  in  the  evening  by  manufacturing  little  articles  out 
of  nutshells.  Rudolph  had  a  sharp  knife  which  had  been 
given  him  for  showing  a  gentleman  the  way  out  of  the 
forest.  But  the  circumstances  of  the  family  had  become 
so  distressing  that  they  had  given  up  their  evening  em 
ployments,  creeping  sadfy  away  to  bed  after  a  frugal  sup 
per. 

One  day,  as  they  were  gathering  nuts  in  the  forest, 
Rudolph  said,  "  Sister,  I  fear  that  mother  is  breaking 
down.  What  can  we  do  to  help  her  ?  The  winter  is 
coming  on,  and  times  will  be  harder  than  ever." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Rudolph,"  answered  Theresa; 
"  why  can't  we  do  something  with  your  little  nut-baskets 

10 


146  QUEER   STORIES. 


and  nut-boats?  I've  heard  say  that  the  little  city  chil 
dren,  who  wear  fine  clothes  and  have  plenty  of  money, 
are  very  fond  of  such  things.  Let  us  send  all  you  have 
by  mother  to-morrow." 

And  so  on  the  next  morning  the  mother's  basket  took 
the  whole  stock.  When  evening  came  the  children 
walked  a  quarter  of  a  league  down  to  the  crossing  of  the 
brook  to  meet  her,  and  hear  the  fate  of  their  venture. 
But  the  poor  woman  could  only  tell  them  that  the  work 
was  admired,  but  that  she  had  not  succeeded  in  selling 
any  of  it.  That  night  they  went  to  bed  more  than  ever 
disheartened.  The  next  day,  their  mother  carried  their 
trinkets  to  town  again,  and  when  she  returned  they  were 
delighted  to  know  that  some  of  them  had  sold  for  a  few 
pence,  and  that  a  lady  had  sent  an  order  for  some  mosses 
to  make  a  moss-basket  with. 

"We'll  make  the  basket  ourselves,"  exclaimed  Ru 
dolph,  and  the  next  day  they  gathered  the  mosses,  and 
Rudolph  and  his  sister  worked  nearly  all  night  framing 
a  basket  of  twigs,  and  fitting  'in  the  different  colored 
mosses.  What  was  their  delight  when  they  learned  that 
the  lady  had  paid  a  good  price  for  the  basket. 

It  was  still  up-hill  work  to  live.  Sometimes  the  trin 
kets  sold  and  sometimes  they  did  not.  But  Rudolph 
kept  whittling  away,  and  his  sister  soon  became  a  good 
whittler,  too.  Besides,  she  often  sewed  little  pin-cushions 
in  the  nut  shells,  and  did  other  things  by  which  her  little 


THE  WOOD- CHOPPER'S  CHILDREN.  147 

brown  fingers  were   quite   as   useful  as   Rudolph's.      But 
often  they  were  discouraged  by  complete  failure  to  sell. 

There  was  a  fair  to  take  place  some  time  later,  and 
Rudolph  and  Theresa  worked  hard  making  swinging 
baskets  and  nut-shell  boats  for  the  fair.  And  as  the  poor 
mother  was  fairly  broken  down,  and  could  not  go  to  the 
city,  they  had  not  to  pick  berries,  but  could  spend  all 
their  time  making  their  little  articles.  They  even  made 
little  faces  out  of  the  nut  shells.  At  last  came  the  day  of 
the  fair ;  and,  alas  !  the  poor  mother  was  still  sick,  while 
the  father  was  not  able  to  move  out  of  his  chair  for  rheu 
matism.  This  was  a  sad  disappointment,  but  Rudolph 
had  often  been  to  the  city  with  his  mother,  and  he  re 
solved  to  take  Theresa  and  go  himself.  As  the  food  was 
out,  the  parents  could  not  refuse,  and  the  two  children 
climbed  up  on  the  donkey  and  set  out.  It  was  a  weari 
some  and  anxious  day  to  the  parents.  At  last,  when 
evening  came,  there  came  no  returning  children.  But  an 
hour  after  dark  the  donkey  stopped  before  the  door,  and 
Rudolph  and  his  sister  came  joyfully  in  to  tell  the  day's 
adventures.  Very  happy  were  the  parents  to  learn  of 
their  complete  success.  And  now  the  children  went  regu 
larly  to  the  weekly  markets  or  fairs,  and  had  a  stall  of 
their  own.  Their  constant  whittling  made  them  more 
and  more  skilful,  and  their  trinkets  were  soon  much 
sought  after.  They  were  able  to  buy  a  little  gold  and  sil 
ver,  and  soon  learned  to  inlay  their  nut- shell  snuff-boxes 


148  QUEER   STORIES. 


and  wooden  jewel-cases,  so  as  to  make  them  very  beauti 
ful.  And  as  the  wood-chopper  grew  better  he  was  able 
to  do  the  rougher  work  of  preparing  the  wood  for  them. 
And  the  money  they  realized  was  more  than  the  wood- 
chopper  was  ever  able  to  make  in  his  best  days.  After 
a  while  some  wood-carver's  tools  helped  Rudolph  to  do 
still  more  curious  work.  And  he  now  has  a  shop  in  town. 
Theresa  prepares  his  drawings  and  patterns  for  him,  and 
does  the  staining  and  moss-work,  and  the  firm  is  always 
known  as  THE  WOOD-CHOPPER'S  CHILDREN.  If  any 
body  wants  a  moral  to  the  story  they  can  furnish  it  them 
selves. 

"  I  suppose  the  moral  is,  that  EVERYBODY  CAN  DO 
SOMETHING  IF  HE  TRIES,"  said  Miller. 

"  I  s-s-suppose  it's  b-b-bed-time  "  said  the  chairman, 
and  the  boys  adjourned. 


THE  BOUND  BOY. 

the  third  Friday  evening  the  boys  came  to- 
gether  in  some  uncertainty  in  regard  to  who  was  to 
be  the  story-teller.  But  Will  Sampson,  the  stammering 
president  of  the  club,  had  taken  care  to  notify  John  Har- 
lan,  the  widow's  son,  that  he  was  to  tell  the  story.  If 
there  was  any  general  favorite  it  was  John  ;  for  while  his 
poverty  excited  the  sympathy  of  all,  his  manliness  and 
generousness  of  heart  made  everybody  his  friend,  and  so, 
when  Sampson  got  the  boys  quiet,  he  announced : 
"  G-g-gentlemen  of  the  order  of  the  c-c-cellar-door,  the 
story-teller  for  th-the  evening  is  our  friend  Harlan. 
P-p-please  c-come  forward  to  the  t-top,  Mr.  Harlan." 

"  I  say,  Hurrah  for  Harlan  !  "  said  Harry  Wilson,  and 
the  boys  gave  a  cheer. 

"  Give  us  a  good  one,  John,"  said  mischievous  Jimmy 
Jackson. 

"  Order  !  "  said  the  chairman.  "  Mr.  Harlan  has  the 
fl-floor, — the  c-c-cellar-door,  I  mean.  Be  q-quiet,  J-J-Jack- 
son,  or  I'll  reprimand  you  severely." 

"  I'm  perfectly  quiet,"  said  Jackson.  "  Haven't 
spoken  a  word  for  an  hour." 


ISO  QUEER    STORIES. 


JOHN  HARLAN'S  STORY. 

Well,  boys,  I  don't  know  that  I  can  do  better  than 
tell  you  the  story  of  one  of  my  mother's  old  school-mates. 
His  name  was  Samuel  Tomkins — 

"  Couldn't  you  give  your  hero  a  prettier  name  ?  "  said 
Jackson  ;  but  the  president  said  "  order,"  and  the  story 
went  on. 

He  lived  in  one  of  the  counties  bordering  on  the. 
Ohio  River.  It  was  a  rough  log  cabin  in  which  his  early 
life  was  passed.  He  learned  to  walk  on  an  uneven  pun 
cheon  floor  ;  the  walls  were  "  chinked  "  with  buckeye 
sticks,  and  the  cracks  daubed  with  clay,  and  a  barrel, 
with  both  ends  knocked  out,  finished  off  the  chimney. 
His  father  had  emigrated  from  Pennsylvania,  and  was 
what  they  call  in  that  country  a  "  poor  manager."  He 
never  got  on  well,  but  eked  out  a  living  by  doing  day's 
works,  and  hunting  and  fishing.  But  Samuel's  mother 
was  a  woman  of  education,  and  had  just  given  him  a  good 
start,  when  she  died.  He  was  then  but  eight  years  of 
age.  A  few  months  later  his  father  died  of  a  congestive 
chill,  and  little  Sammy  was  thrown  on  the  world.  He 
was  indentured  to  old  Squire  Higgins.  The  Squire  was 
a  hard  master ;  and  in  those  days  a  bound  boy  was  not 
much  better  off  than  a  slave,  any  how.  Up  early  in  the 
morning  "  doing  chores,"  running  all  day,  and  bringing 
the  cows  from  the  pasture  in  the  evening,  he  was  kept 


THE   BOUND    BOY.  151 


always  busy.  The  terms  of  his  indenture  obligated  the 
Squire  to  send  him  to  school  three  months  in  the  winter; 
and  it  was  a  delightful  time  to  him  when  he  took  his  seat 
on  the  backless  benches  of  the  old  log  school-house, 
with  its  one  window,  and  that  a  long,  low  one,  and  its 
wide  old  fireplace.  He  learned  to  "read,  write,  and 
cypher"  very  fast.  And  in  the  summer  time,  when  he 
was  employed  in  throwing  clods  off  the  corn  after  the 
plough,  he  had  only  to  go  once  across  the  field  while  the 
plough  went  twice.  By  hurrying,  he  could  get  consider 
able  time  to  wait  at  each  alternate  row.  This  time  he 
spent  in  studying.  He  hid  away  his  book  in  the  fence- 
corner,  and  by  concealing  himself  a  few  minutes  in  the 
weeds  while  he  waited  for  the  plough,  he  could  manage 
to  learn  something  in  a  day. 

After  he  grew  larger  the  Squire  failed  to  send  him  to 
school.  When  asked  about  it,  he  said,  "  Wai,  I  'low  he 
knows  a  good  deal  more'n  I  do  now,  an'  'taint  no  sort  o' 
use  to  learn  so  much.  Spiles  a  boy  to  fill  him  chock  full." 
But  Sammy  was  bent  on  learning,  any  how  ;  and  in  the 
long  winter  mornings,  before  day,  he  used  to  study  hard 
at  such  books  as  he  could  get. 

"  I  never  seed  sich  a  chap,"  old  Mrs.  Higgins  would 
say.  "  He  got  a  invite  to  a  party  last  week,  and  my 
old  man  tole  him  as  how  he  mout  go  ;  but,  d'ye  b'lieve 
it  ?  he  jist  sot  right  down  thar,  in  that  air  chimney-cor 
ner,  and  didn't  do  nothin'  but  steddy  an'  steddy  all  the 


152  QUEER    STORIES. 


whole  blessed  time,  while  all  the  other  youngsters  wuz  a 
frolickin'.  It  beats  me  all  holler." 

But  the  next  winter  poor  Sam  had  a  hard  time  of  it. 
The  new  school-master,  who  was  hired  because  he  was 
cheap,  knew  very  little  ;  and  when  Sam  got  into  trouble 
with  his  "  sums,"  and  asked  the  school-master  about 
them,  he  answered,  "Wai,  now,  Sam,  I  hain't  cyphered 
no  furder'n  '  reduction/  and  I  can't  tell  you.  But  they's 
a  preacher  over  in  Johnsonville  a-preachin'  and  a-teachin' 
school.  He  is  a  reg'lar  college  feller,  and  I  reckon  he 
knows  single  and  double  rule  of  three,  and  all  the 
rest." 

Sam  coaxed  the  Squire  to  let  him  have  old  "  Blaze- 
face,"  the  blind  mare,  to  ride  to  Johnsonville,  three  miles 
off,  the  next  morning,  if  he  would  promise  to  be  back  "  on 
time  to  begin  shuckin'  corn  bright  and  airly."  And  be 
fore  six  o'clock  he  hitched  old  Blaze  in  front  of  "  Preacher 
Brown's  "  door.  When  he  knocked,  Mr.  Brown  was  mak 
ing  a  fire  in  the  stove,  and  he  was  not  a  little  surprised  to 
see  a  boy  by  the  door  in  patched  blue-jeans  pantaloons 
that  were  too  short,  and  a  well-worn  "round-about" 
that  was  too  tight.  He  looked  at  the  boy's  old  arithmetic 
and  slate  in  surprise. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  Sam,  "  I'm  Squire  Hig- 
gins'  bound  boy.  I  want  to  learn  somethin',  but  I  can't 
go  to  school  ;  and  if  I  could,  'twouldn't  amount  to  much, 
because  the  master  don't  know  as  much  as  I  do,  even.  I 


THE   BOUND    BOY.  153 


got  stalled  on  a  sum  in  cube  root,  an'  I  come  down  here 
to  get  you  to  help  me  out,  for  I'm  bound  to  know  how  to 
do  everything  there  is  in  the  old  book  ;  and  I've  got  to 
be  back  to  begin  work  in  an  hour." 

The  minister  shook  him  by  the  hand,  and  sat  down 
cheerfully,  and  soon  put  daylight  through  the  "sum." 
Then  Sam  got  up,  and  feeling  down  in  the  bottom  of  his 
pocket,  he  took  out  a  quarter  of  a  dollar.  "  Would  that 
pay  you,  sir  ?  It's  all  I've  got,  and  all  I  will  get  in  a 
year,  I  guess.  I  hope  it's  enough." 

11  Keep  it !  keep  it !  "  said  Mr.  Brown,  brushing  away 
the  tears  ;  "  God  bless  you,  my  boy,  we  don't  charge  for 
such  work  as  that.  I'd  like  to  lend  you  this  History  of 
England  to  read.  And  come  over  any  evening,  and  I'll 
help  you,  my  brave  fellow." 

One  evening  in  every  week  the  bound  boy  rode  old 
Blaze  over  to  the  minister's  house,  and  rode  back  after 
eleven  o'clock,  for  he  and  the  parson  came  to  be  great 
friends.  The  next  year  Mr.  Brown  threatened  the  old 
Squire  with  the  law  for  his  violation  of  his  part  of  the 
terms  of  the  indenture,  and  forced  him  to  release  Sam, 
who  was  eighteen  now,  from  any  further  service.  He  dug 
his  way  through  college,  and  is  now  Professor  of  Mathe 
matics  in  University.  The  old  Squire,  when  he 

hears  of  Professor  Tomkins'  success,  always  chuckles,  and 
says,  "  You  don't  say,  now  !  Wai,  he  used  to  feed  my 
hogs." 


154  QUEER   STORIES. 


"  We'll  adj-j-journ  with  three  cheers  for  Harlan,"  said 
Sampson.  And  they  gave  them. 

"  Oh,  don't  go  yet,"  said  Tom  Miller  ;  and  so  another 
half-hour  was  passed  in  general  talk. 


THE  PROFLIGATE  PRINCE. 

FRIDAY  evening  next  after  the  one  on  which  John 
Harlan  told  his  story,  it  rained  ;  so  the  club  did  not 
meet.  But  they  came  together  on  the  following  Friday 
evening,  and  it  was  decided  that  Hans  Schlegel  should 
tell  the  story. 

"  Come,  Schlegel,"  said  Harlan,  "  you  must  know 
a  good  many,  for  you  are  always  studying  big  German 
books.  Tell  us  one  of  the  stories  that  those  old  German 
fellows,  with  jaw-breaking  names,  have  to  tell." 

"Yes,"  said  Jackson,  "tell  us  about  Herr  Johannes 
Wilhelm  Frederich  Von  Schmitzswartsschriekelversaman- 
arbeitfrelinghuysen  !  " 

Jimmy's  good-natured  raillery  raised  a  hearty  giggle, 
and  Hans  joined  in  it  with  great  gusto. 

"  I  think,"  said  Harry  Wilson,  "  Schlegel  can  make  a 
better  story  than  any  of  those  old  fellows,  whose  names 
take  away  your  breath  when  you  pronounce  them.  Tell 
us  one  of  your  own,  Hans." 

"  D-d-d-do  just  as  you  p-p-please,  Sch-sch — "  but  the 
stammering  chairman  fairly  broke  down  in  trying  to  pro 
nounce  the  name,  and  the  boys  all  had  another  laugh. 


156  QUEER   STORIES. 


"  Really,  gentlemen,"  said  Schlegel,  "  I  should  be  de 
lighted  to  please  you,  but  as  you  have  asked  me  to  tell 
you  a  story  that  I've  read  in  German,  and  to  tell  you  one 
of  my  own  make,  and  to  do  just  as  I  please,  I  fear  I  shall 
be  like  the  man  who  tried  first  to  ride,  and  then  to  carry 
his  donkey  to  please  the  crowd.  But,  I  think  I  can 
fulfil  all  three  requests.  I  read  a  story  in  Krummacher 
some  time  ago,  and  I  have  partly  forgotten  it.  Now,  if 
I  tell  you  this  story,  partly  translating  from  the  German 
as  I  remember  it,  and  partly  filling  up  the  story  myself,  I 
shall  do  just  as  I  please,  and  gratify  you  all." 

"Good,"  said  Jackson;  "takes  Schlegel  to  make  a 
nice  distinction.  Go  on  with  the  story." 

THE  STORY, 

Hazael  was  the  name  of  the  son  of  an  oriental  prince. 
He  was  carefully  educated  by  command  of  his  father,  and 
grew  up  in  the  valley  of  the  wise  men.  What  that  is,  I 
cannot  tell  you,  for  Herr  Krummacher  did  not  deign  to 
tell  me.  At  last,  when  he  came  to  be  a  young  man,  his 
father  thought  best  to  have  him  travel,  that  he  might 
know  something  of  other  people  besides  his  own.  For 
people  who  stay  at  home  always  are  apt  to  think  every 
thing  strange  that  differs  from  what  they  have  been  ac 
customed  to.  Thus  it  is  that  English-speaking  people, 
where  knowledge  is  limited,  think  that  German  names  are 


THE   PROFLIGATE   PRINCE.  157 

uncouth,  when  it  is  only  the  narrowness  of  their  own  cul 
ture  that  makes  them  seem  so. 

Now,  in  the  country  in  which  Hazael  lived,  they  didn't 
send  young  men  to  Europe,  as  we  do,  to  complete  their 
education  by  travelling  at  lightning  speed  over  two  or 
three  countries,  and  then  coming  back  to  talk  of  their 
travels.  But  in  that  country,  they  sent  them  to  Persia  to 
live  awhile,  that  they  might  study  the  manners  and  cus 
toms  of  the  people.  So  Hazael  came  into  Persia.  He 
was  allowed  every  liberty,  but  his  old  tutor,  Serujah,  fol 
lowed  him  without  his  knowledge,  and  watched  his 
course. 

When  Hazael  reached  the  great  city,  he  was  dazzled 
with  its  splendors.  The  signs  of  wealth,  the  excitements 
of  pleasure,  and  the  influence  of  companions  were  too 
much  for  him.  He  saw  the  crowds  of  pleasure-seekers, 
he  was  intoxicated  with  music,  he  was  charmed  with  the 
beauty  and  conversation  of  giddy  women.  He  forgot  all 
the  lessons  of  Serujah.  He  forgot  all  his  noble  resolu 
tions.  Days  and  nights  were  spent  in  pleasure  and  dissi 
pation.  In  vain  Serujah  looked  for  any  signs  of  amend 
ment.  He  was  a  u  fast  "  young  man,  fast  because  he  was 
going  down  hill. 

One  day,  as  he  wandered  in  the  pleasure  gardens  of 
Ispahan  with  his  dissolute  companions,  he  beheld  his  old 
master,  Serujah,  dressed  as  a  pilgrim,  with  staff  in  hand, 
hurrying  past  him. 


158  QUEER   STORIES. 


"  Whence  come  you,  and  whither  do  you  journey?" 
cried  out  the  young  prince  to  Serujah. 

"  I  do  not  know  where  I  am  going,"  answered  Seru 
jah. 

"What!"  said  Hazael,  in  astonishment,  "have  you 
left  home  and  gone  on  a  pilgrimage,  and  yet  do  not  know 
where  you  are  going  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Serujah,  "I  just  go  here  and  there, 
taking  the  road  that  seems  to  be  the  pleasantest,  or  that 
suits  my  fancy." 

"  But  where  will  you  come  to  at  this  rate?  Where 
will  such  travelling  lead  you  ?  "  asked  Hazael. 

"  I  do  not  know.  That  matters  not  to  me,"  said  the 
wise  man. 

Then  Hazael  turned  to  his  companion  and  said,  "  See ! 
this  man  was  once  full  of  wisdom.  He  was  the  guide  of 
my  youth.  But  his  reason  has  departed,  and  now,  poor 
lunatic,  he  is  wandering  over  the  earth  not  knowing  where 
he  is  going.  How  has  the  wise  man  become  a  fool  !  " 

Serujah  came  up  to  the  young  prince,  and  taking  his 
knapsack  from  his  back,  threw  it  upon  the  ground. 

"You  have  spoken  rightly,"  he  said.  "Hazael,  I 
once  led  you,  and  you  followed  me.  Now,  I  follow  where 
you  lead.  I  have  lost  my  road,  and  forgotten  where  I  am 
going.  So  have  you.  You  set  me  the  example.  You 
are  wandering  round  without  purpose.  Which  is  the 
greater  fool,  you  or  I  ?  I  have  forgotten  my  destination. 


THE   PROFLIGATE   PRINCE.  159 

You  have  forgotten  your  high  duties  as  a  prince,  and 
your  manhood." 

Thus  spoke  the  wise  man,  and  Hazael  saw  his  folly. 

"  That  story  is  solemn  enough  for  Sunday-school," 
said  Jimmy  Jackson.  "  But  it  isn't  bad.  Sharp  old  fel 
low  that  Jerushy  or  Serujy,  or  whatever  his  name  was. 
But  I  don't  believe  it's  true.  When  a  fellow  gets  a-going 
to  the  bad  you  can't  turn  him  around  so  easy  as  that!*' 


THE   YOUNG   SOAP-BOILER. 

IT  was  a  mild  evening  in  the  early  fall,  when  the  boys 
got  together  for  the  next  story,  which  of  course  fell 
to  the  lot  of  Tom  Miller,  the  minister's  son,  whom  the 
boys  familiarly  called  "The  Dominie."  No  boy  in  the 
cellar-door  club  was  more  obliging  to  his  friends,  more 
forgiving  to  those  who  injured  him,  than  "The  Dominie," 
and  none  was  more  generally  loved.  But  Tom  had  some 
strong  opinions  of  his  own.  He  was  a  believer  in  "the 
dignity  of  work,"  and  when  he  wanted  a  little  spending 
money,  would  take  a  saw  and  cut  wood  on  the  sidewalk, 
without  any  regard  to  some  of  the  fellows,  who  called 
him  wood-sawyer.  He  was  given  to  helping  his  mother, 
and  did  not  mind  having  the  boys  catch  him  in  the 
kitchen  when  his  mother  was  without  "help."  If  any 
body  laughed  at  him  he  only  replied,  "  There  is  noth 
ing  I  am  more  proud  of  than  that  I  am  not  afraid  to  be 
useful."  This  independence,  this  utter  contempt  for  the 
sneers  of  others  when  he  was  right,  made  the  boys  look 
for  something  a  little  peculiar  when  Tom  should  come  to 
his  story. 

"  G-g-gentlemen  !    this     c-c-cellar-door    society    will 
come  to  order.     Tom  Miller,  the  dominie " 


THE    YOUNG   SOAP-BOILER.  l6l 

"  The  wood-sawyer  ?  "  said  Jackson,  good-naturedly. 

"  Y-yes,  the  w-wood-sawyer,  the  f-fearless  reformer, 
the  b-b-believer  in  hard  work,  the  bravest  member  of  the 
c-cellar-door  cl-club,  has  the  slanting  floor,  the  cellar- 
door  itself,  and  I  hope  he  will  st-st-stand  by  his  colors, 
and  give  us  a  story  that  has  the  meanest  kind  of  work  in 
it,  made  honorable  by  d-d-dig-dignity  of  character."  I 
think  Sampson  stammered  a  little  on  "  dig-dig  "  just  for 
the  fun.  But  the  boys  all  agreed  to  his  request  and  so 
they  heard 

TOM  MILLER'S  STORY. 

My  story,  boys,  shall  be  what  you  ask.  I  shall  call  it 
"  The  Young  Soap-Boiler,"  for  I  suppose  you'll  admit 
that  boiling  soap  is  about  as  unpleasant  work  as  there  is. 

"Touched  bottom  that  time,"  interposed  Harry  Wil 
son. 

Well,  the  boy  that  I'm  going  to  tell  about  was  Dudley 
Crawford.  With  a  cheery  eye  and  voice,  a  quick  eye,  a 
quicker  hand  and  a  fleet  foot,  he  was  a  great  favorite  on 
the  play-ground.  If  there  was  a  weak  boy,  whom  the 
others  imposed  upon,  Dudley  was  always  his  fast  friend, 
and  the  mean  fellows  who  make  up  for  their  cowardice  to 
ward  boys  of  their  size  by  "  picking  "  at  little  fellows  or 
green  boys,  had  always  a  wholesome  fear  of  Dudley, 
though  I  do  not  think  he  ever  struck  one  of  them.  But 


l62  QUEER   STORIES. 

his  fearless,  honest  eye  cowed  them,  and  I  am  sure  he 
would  have  struck  hard  if  it  had  been  necessary  to  protect 
the  poor  little  fellows  who  kept  under  his  wing.  The 
boys  called  them  "  Dud's  chickens." 

There  was  one  boy  in  the  school,  Walter  Whittaker, 
who  had  a  special  desire  to  be  on  good  terms  with  Dud 
ley.  Walter's  father  had  gotten  rich  during  the  war,  and 
Walter  had  a  special  fondness  for  being  genteel.  He 
wore  gloves,  and  kept  his  boots  brighter  than  there  was 
any  occasion  for.  He  was  not  much  of  a  scholar,  though 
older  than  Dudley.  But  he  was  fond  of  calling  young 
Crawford  his  friend,  because  Dudley's  father  was  a  rich 
and  talented  lawyer. 

At  last,  there  came  a  financial  crash  that  sent  all  of 
Mr.  Crawford's  half-million  of  dollars  to  the  winds.  He 
was  in  feeble  health  when  it  came,  and  the  loss  of  his 
property  hastened  his  death.  The  very  same  "  panic  " 
left  Whittaker  poor  also.  But  the  two  boys  took  it  very 
differently.  Whittaker  looked  as  crestfallen  as  if  he  had 
committed  a  crime.  Dudley  mourned  the  loss  of  his 
father,  but  held  up  his  head  bravely  under  the  sudden 
poverty.  Whittaker  looked  around  for  a  "  situation." 
But  the  times  were  hard,  and  situations  were  not  to  be 
had.  Every  clerk  that  could  be  dispensed  with  was  sent 
away,  and  besides,  merchants  do  not  like  to  employ  a  fel 
low  who  wears  gloves  and  looks  afraid  of  soiling  his  hands. 
Dudley  had  his  mother  to  support,  and  looked  about 


THE    YOUNG   SOAP  BOILER.  163 

bravely  for  work.  But  no  work  was  to  be  had.  He  tried 
everything,  as  it  seemed,  until  at  last  he  asked  stern  old 
Mr.  Bluff,  who  owned  half  a  dozen  factories  of  different 
kinds. 

"  You  want  work,  do  you,  young  man  ?  I  s'pose  you 
want  to  keep  books  or  suthin'  o'  that  sort.  I  never  saw 
such  a  lot  o'  fellers  askin'  for  work  and  afraid  to  dirty 
their  fingers." 

"  I'll  do  any  honest  work  by  which  I  can  earn  my 
bread,  without  being  dependent  on  friends." 

"  Any  honest  work,  will  you  ?  I'll  make  you  back  out 
of  that  air.  I'll  bet  you  won't  begin  where  I  did." 

"  Try  me,  sir,  and  see." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  give  you  good  wages  to  go  into  my 
soap  factory  next  Monday  morning.  Ha !  ha  !  that's 
honest  work  ;  but  fellers  of  your  cloth  don't  do  that  sort 
of  honest  work." 

"  /will,  sir." 

Mr.  Bluff  was  utterly  surprised,  but  he  gave  Dudley 
the  situation,  saying  that  he  reckoned  the  smell  of  soap- 
grease  would  send  him  out. 

Dudley  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  his  own  bold 
ness.  But  he  only  told  his  mother  that  he  had  a  situation 
with  Mr.  Bluff,  and  that  he  did  not  know  the  precise 
nature  of  his  duties.  He  was  not  ashamed  of  his  work, 
but  afraid  of  giving  her  pain. 

Monday  morning  he  went  early  to  the  soap  factory, 


1 64  QUEER   STORIES. 


stopping  at  the  tailor's  on  the  way,  and  getting  a  pair  of 
blue  overalls  that  he  had  ordered.  It  must  be  confessed 
that  the  smell  of  the  factory  disgusted  him  at  first,  but  he 
soon  became  interested.  He  saw  that  brains  were  used  in 
soap-making.  He  became  more  and  more  interested  as  he 
saw  how  accurate  some  of  the  chemical  processes  were. 
He  soon  learned  to  cut  the  great  blocks  of  hard  soap  with 
wires  ;  he  watched  with  eager  interest  the  use  of  coloring 
matters  in  making  the  mottled  soaps,  and  he  soon  became 
so  skilful  that  surly  Mr.  Bluff  promoted  him  to  some  of 
the  less  unpleasant  parts  of  the  work. 

But  there  was-  much  talk  about  it  at  first.  Some  of 
the  young  ladies  who  had  been  useless  all  their  lives,  and 
who  had  come  to  think  that  uselessness  was  necessary  to 
respectability,  were  "  surprised  that  Dudley  Crawford 
should  follow  so  low  a  trade."  But  those  very  people 
never  once  thought  it  disgraceful  in  Walter  Whittaker  to 
be  a  genteel  loafer,  living  off  his  father's  hard-earned 
salary,  and  pretending  that  he  was  looking  for  a  situation. 
And  I  will  not  be  too  hard  on  Whittaker.  I  think  if  he 
could  have  had  a  situation  in  which  he  could  do  nothing, 
and  be  paid  well  for  it,  he  would  have  been  delighted. 
But  he  shunned  Dudley.  Partly  because  he  was  afraid  of 
compromising  his  own  respectability,  and  partly  because 
he  had  sense  enough  to  see  that  Dudley's  honest  eyes 
looked  through  him,  and  saw  what  a  humbug  he  was. 

After  a  year  Dudley's  father's  estate  was  settled,  and 


THE    YOUNG   SOAP-BOTLER.  165 


owing  to  an  unexpected  rise  in  some  of  the  property,  it 
was  found  that  the  debts  would  all  be  paid,  and  a  small 
balance  be  left  for  the  family.  It  was  but  a  small  amount, 
but  it  enabled  Dudley  to  lay  aside  his  blue  overalls,  and 
return  to  the  old  school  again.  Dr.  Parmlee,  the  princi 
pal,  was  delighted  to  have  such  a  good  pupil  back  again. 
Whittaker  came  back  about  the  same  time,  and  the  very 
first  day  he  whispered  to  some  of  the  boys  that  Dudley 
smelled  of  soap-grease.  The  boys  laughed  thoughtlessly, 
as  boys  are  apt  to  do,  and  passed  the  poor  joke  round. 
Dudley  maintained  the  respect  of  the  school  in  general, 
but  there  was  a  small  clique,  who  never  knew  their  les 
sons,  but  who  prided  themselves  on  being  genteel  dunces. 
These  folks  used  to  talk  about  the  soap-grease,  even  in 
Dr.  Parmlee's  presence  ;  but  the  Doctor  quietly  retorted 
that  if  Crawford's  hands  smelled  of  soap-grease,  that  was 
better  than  to  have  soap-grease  inside  his  head  and  po 
matum  on  the  outside.  They  were  a  little  more  modest 
after  this,  but  they  could  not  forbear  allusions  that  kept 
Dudley  under  fire.  His  mother,  who  was  very  proud  of 
her  son's  independence,  could  not  but  feel  sorry  that  he 
was  subject  to  such  persecutions.  "  Ah,  mother,"  he 
would  say,  "  the  thing  that  I  am  proudest  of  in  my  life  is, 
that  I  spent  a  year  in  Bluff's  soap  factory.  Don't  think 
that  I  am  annoyed  at  the  barkings  of  lap-dogs." 

At  last  came  the  day  of  graduation.     Dudley  led  the 
class.     There  was  a  great  crowd  of  fine  people.     The  last 


l66  QUEER   STORIES. 


speech  of  all  on  the  programme  was  "  Honest  Work  Hon 
orable — Dudley  Crawford."  With  a  characteristic  manli 
ness  he  stood  up  bravely  for  work.  So* fine  were  his  ar 
guments,  so  undaunted  his  bearing,  that  the  audience 
were  carried  away.  Dr.  Parmlee  took  off  his  spectacles 
to  wipe  his  eyes.  Dudley's  mother  could  not  conceal  her 
pleasure.  "  Franklin's  hands  had  printers'  ink  on  them," 
he  said,  "but  they  were  shaken  by  princes  and  savans — 
the  lightning  did  not  despise  them.  Garibaldi's  fingers 
were  soiled  with  candle-grease,  but  they  have  moulded  a 
free  nation.  Stephenson's  fingers  were  black  with  coal, 
and  soiled  with  machine  oil  of  a  fireman's  work,  but  they 
pointed  out  highways  to  commerce  and  revolutionized 
civilization.  There  are  those  "  (Whittaker  and  his  set 
looked  crestfallen  here)  "  who  will  gladly  take  the  hand 
of  worthless  loafers,  or  of  genteel  villains  "  (here  certain 
ladies  looked  down),  "  but  who  would  not  have  dared 
shake  hands  with  Franklin,  the  printer,  with  Garibaldi, 
the  tallow-chandler,  with  Stephenson,  the  stoker.  But 
before  God  and  right-thinking  men  there  are  no  soiled 
hands  but  guilty  hands  or  idle  ones." 

When  he  sat  down,  others  beside  his  mother  shed 
tears,  and  good  Dr.  Parmlee  shook  his  pupil's  hand  in 
sight  of  the  audience,  but  the  applause  was  so  great  that 
nobody  could  hear  what  he  said.  And  the  next  day  a 
note  came  from  the  chief  editor  of  a  leading  paper,  saying 
that  one  who  believed  enough  in  labor  to  carry  out  his 


THE   YOUNG   SOAP-BOILER.  167 

principles  in  his  life,  would  make  an  earnest  advocate  of 
them.  He  therefore  tendered  Mr.  Crawford  a  place  on 
the  editorial  staff  of  his  paper. 

"  P-pretty    well    done,    Dominie,"    stammered    Will 
Sampson. 


THE   SHOEMAKER'S   SECRET. 

A  LL  things  have  an  end.  Among  other  things  that 
•^"^  had  an  end  was  the  fine  summer  weather.  Many 
other  things  came  to  an  end  with  it.  Grass,  flowers,  and 
leaves  came  to  an  end.  Chirping  of  katydids  came  to 
an  end,  and  chattering  of  swallows  and  songs  of  robins. 
And  with  the  summer  ended  the  Cellar-door  Club,  like 
all  other  out-door  things  that  could  not  stand  the  frost. 
The  boys  understood  that  their  last  meeting  had  come. 
But  Will  Sampson,  the  stammering  chairman,  was  to 
tell  his  story,  and  though  the  cold  evening  made  them 
button  up  their  coats,  they  determined  to  have  one  more 
good  time  together.  And  so  with  many  a  merry  joke 
they  took  their  places  for  what  Jimmy  Jackson  called  the 
4<  inclined  plane  of  social  enjoyment."  Tom  Miller  got 
up  under  the  window  and  called  the  meeting  to  order, 
announcing  that  Mr.  Sampson  would  tell  the  story  for 
the  evening. 

"I  d-don't  know  about  th-that,"  said  Will.  "You 
s-s-see,  b-boys,  if  I  tell  it  I  shall  have  to  d-do  it  b-by  fits 
and  starts.  If  you  w-want  a  s-story  told  straight  ahead, 
g-g-get  somebody  whose  tongue  w-will  w-wag  when  they 


THE  SHOEMAKER'S  SECRET.  169 

want  it   to.      If  you   want  a  y-yarn  j-j-jerked  out,  I  am 
your  man." 

"  We  will  take  it  jerked  or  any  other  way  you  choose, 
Will,"  said  Miller.  I  want  to  say  just  here  that  patience 
and  self-control  would  have  cured  Sampson  of  his  stam 
merings.  There  is  no  excuse  for  anybody  going  through 
the  world  with  such  a  defect,  when  there  are  so  many  in 
stances  of  the  victory  of  a  strong  and  patient  resolution 
over  it.  I  shall  give  the  story  here  as  if  he  had  spoken  it 
smoothly. 

WILL   SAMPSON'S  STORY. 

In  a  country  a  long  way  off — I  don't  care  to  tell  you 
the  name  of  it  for  fear  I  should  make  some  mistake  in  re 
gard  to  its  geography  or  history  or  manners,  and  besides 
don't  think  it's  anybody's  business  just  where  a  story 
happened — in  a  country  a  long  way  off — perhaps  that 
country  never  existed  except  in  somebody's  head,  who 
knows  ?  Besides,  a  country  that  is  in  your  head  is 
just  as  good  as  one  that  is  on  the  map.  At  least  it's  as 
good  for  a  story.  Well,  in  this  country  there  was  a  vil 
lage  known  as  the  village  of  shoemakers,  because  nearly 
all  the  people  made  shoes.  Peg,  peg,  peg,  could  be 
neard  from  one  end  of  it  to  the  other,  from  morning  till 
night.  It  was  a  perfect  shower  of  hammers.  Into  this 
town  came  one  day  a  peasant  lad  of  twelve  years  of  age, 
with  a  blue  blouse  and  a  queer  red  flannel  cap.  He  had 


I/O  QUEER    STORIES. 


travelled  many  a  weary  mile,  and  he  asked  at  every  shop 
that  he  might  learn  the  shoemakers'  trade.  At  last  he 
was  taken  into  the  shop  of  a  hard  master,  who  was  accus 
tomed  to  beat  his  boys  severely.  But  when  the  master 
went  out,  the  new  boy  in  the  red  flannel  cap  did  not  throw 
bits  of  leather  about  as  the  rest  did,  but  attended  to  his 
work  and  said  nothing,  even  when  the  leather  was  thrown 
at  his  own  red  cap.  And  somehow  he  always  got  more 
work  done  than  the  rest.  And  the  master  never  beat 
Hugo,  the  boy  in  the  red  flannel  cap.  The  other  boys 
said  it  was  because  of  the  charm  that  he  wore  round  his 
neck.  For  Hugo  wore  an  old  copper  coin  suspended  like 
a  school-boy's  medal.  The  master  paid  a  little  something 
for  extra  work,  and  for  some  reason,  the  boys  said  on  ac 
count  of  his  charm,  Hugo  always  had  more  than  the  rest. 
He  did  not  spend  it,  but  once  a  year  a  man  with  a  red 
flannel  cap  like  Hugo's  appeared  and  received  all  the 
boy's  pay  for  overwork,  and  then  went  away.  The  boys 
made  up  their  minds  that  Hugo  had  some  sort  of  witch 
craft  in  his  copper  coin.  After  some  years  his  apprentice 
ship  expired,  and  Hugo  became  a  journeyman,  working  in 
the  same  quiet  way  and  doing  more  work  than  any  other 
man  in  the  village,  though  he  did  not  work  any  faster. 
Meantime  several  of  his  brothers,  each  with  the  same 
quiet  way,  had  appeared,  and  sat  down  to  work  in  the 
same  shop.  Each  of  them  wore  the  red  flannel  cap  with 
a  tassel,  and  each  of  them  had  a  copper  coin  about  his 


THE  SHOEMAKER'S  SECRET.  171 

neck.  Hugo  had  disappeared  for  a  few  days  once,  and 
had  brought  back  a  wife.  His  brothers  lived  in  his  house. 
Soon  he  set  up  a  shop.  As  the  other  shoemakers  were 
afraid  of  his  charm,  he  had  neither  apprentice  nor  journey 
man  except  his  brothers.  Fortunately  there  were  no  less 
than  ten  of  them,  all  with  red  flannel  caps  and  blue 
blouses,  and  wearing  copper  coins  about  their  necks. 
But  Hugo's  shop  turned  out  more  than  any  other.  The 
dealers  over  the  border,  when  there  was  an  order  to  be 
quickly  filled,  always  said,  "  Send  to  Hugo,  he  wears  a 
charm." 

At  last  there  came  a  war.  The  king  of  the  country  in 
which  the  "village  of  shoemakers"  was,  sent  a  herald 
into  the  town,  who  proclaimed  that  if  the  village  would 
furnish  a  certain  number  of  shoes  for  the  army  by  a  given 
day,  the  young  men  should  be  exempt  from  conscription  ; 
but  that  if  the  village  failed,  every  man  in  the  town,  young 
and  old,  should  be  marched  off  into  the  army.  There 
was  a  great  cry,  for  the  task  appeared  to  be  an  impossi 
ble  one.  Whether  it  was  a  superstitious  reverence  for 
Hugo's  charm,  or  that  in  trouble  they  naturally  depended 
on  him,  certain  it  is  that  the  crowd  by  common  consent 
gathered  before  the  shop-door  of  the  silent  shoemaker  in 
the  blue  blouse  and  red  flannel  cap.  For  so  busy  had 
Hugo  been  that  he  had  not  heard  the  herald's  proclama 
tion. 

"Neighbors,"  said  Hugo,  "this  is  a  great  waste  of 


QUEER   STORIES. 


time.  We  have  a  very  few  days  to  do  a  great  work, 
and  here  is  one  hour  wasted  already.  Every  journeyman 
and  apprentice  is  here  idle.  Let  every  one  of  them  re 
turn  to  their  benches  and  go  to  work.  Let  the  masters 
step  into  my  little  house  here  to  consult."  The  journey 
men  hastened  off,  the  masters  divided  the  work  between 
them,  and  Hugo  was  put  in  charge  of  the  whole  village  as 
one  great  shop.  He  did  not  allow  a  man  to  be  seen  on 
the  street.  He  set  the  women  at  work  doing  such  work 
as  they  could.  He  did  not  allow  a  shop  to  close  until  far 
into  the  night.  But  as  the  last  day  given  by  the  king 
drew  near,  the  masters  were  about  to  give  up,  for  it  was 
found  that  every  shop  was  falling  behind  its  proportion. 
But  Hugo  sternly  told  them  to  hold  their  men  in  their 
places.  When  the  last  night  came,  he  did  not  allow  a 
man  to  sleep.  When  morning  came  he  made  the  women 
count  the  shoes  from  each  shop,  but  kept  the  men^t  work. 
As  the  accounts  were  made  up,  it  was  found  that  each 
shop  fell  behind.  The  men  quit  work  in  despair  at  last, 
and  women  were  crying  in  the  streets.  Hugo's  shop 
came  last.  It  was  found  that  he  and  his  brothers  had 
made  just  enough  over  their  share  to  make  up  the  defi 
ciency.  The  whole  village  hailed  him  as  their  deliverer, 
and  everybody  said  that  it  was  because  of  his  charm. 

When  the  war  was  over  the  king  came  to  the  village 
to  thank  the  shoemakers  for  their  aid.  All  but  Hugo  ap 
peared  before  him.  When  he  heard  of  Hugo's  conduct 


THE  SHOEMAKER'S  SECRET.  173 

he  sent  for  him.  "  They  tell  me/'  said  the  king,  "that 
you  are  the  man  who  had  the  required  number  of  shoes 
done.  They  say  that  you  and  your  ten  brothers  wear 
charms.  Tell  me  your  secret." 

Hugo,  holding  his  red  flannel  cap  in  his  hand,  began  : 
"  Sire,  when  I  was  a  lad  my  father  had  many  children. 
I  left  my  mountain  home,  and  came  here  to  earn  some 
thing  to  help  support  them.  These  my  ten  brothers  came 
after  me.  When  each  one  left,  our  good  mother  hung  a 
copper  coin  about  his  neck,  and  said,  '  Remember  that 
you  are  going  to  a  town  where  there  is  much  idleness 
among  the  shoemakers,  masters  and  men.  Whenever 
you  are  tempted  to  be  idle  or  to  be  discouraged,  remem 
ber  what  I  tell  you,  KEEP  PEGGING  AWAY  !  '  Behold, 
sire,  the  charm  by  which  we  have  succeeded,  by  which 
we  saved  the  village  from  your  wrath,  and  your  land 
from  destruction." 

And  after  that  there  might  have  been  seen  in  the  king's 
employ,  in  various  affairs  of  importance,  ten  men  in  blue 
blouses  and  red  flannel  caps,  wearing  each  a  copper  coin 
about  his  neck. 

When  Sampson  had  stammered  his  way  through  this 
story,  the  boys  agreed  to  meet  for  the  winter  in  Tom  Mil 
ler's  house. 


Modern  Fables. 


FLAT  TAIL,   THE   BEAVER. 

A  COLONY  of  beavers  selected  a  beautiful  spot  on  a 
clear  stream,  called  Silver  Creek,  to  build  them 
selves  a  habitation.  Without  waiting  for  any  orders,  and 
without  any  wrangling  about  whose  place  was  the  best, 
they  gnawed  down  some  young  trees  and  laid  the  founda 
tion  for  a  dam.  With  that  skill  for  which  they  are  so  re 
markable,  they  built  it  so  that  it  would  protect  them 
from  cold,  from  water,  and  from  their  foes.  When  it  was 
completed,  they  were  delighted  with  it,  and  paddled 
round  joyously  in  the  pond  above,  expressing  their  pleas 
ure  to  each  other  in  true  beaver  style. 

In  this  colony  there  was  one  young  beaver,  by  the 
name  of  Flat  Tail.  His  father,  whose  name  was  Mud 
Dauber,  had  been  a  celebrated  beaver,  who,  having  very 
superior  teeth,  could  gnaw  through  trees  with  great  rapid 
ity.  Old  Mud  Dauber  had  distinguished  himself  chiefly, 
however,  by  saving  the  dam  on  three  separate  occasions 
in  time  of  flood.  »He  had  done  this  by  his  courage  and 
prudence,  always  beginning  to  work  as  soon  as  he  saw 
the  danger  coming,  without  waiting  till  the  damage  had 
become  too  great  to  repair, 

12 


178  QUEER   STORIES. 


But  his  son,  this  young  fellow  Flat  Tail,  was  a  sorry 
fellow.  As  long  as  old  Mud  Dauber  lived,  he  did  pretty 
well,  but  as  soon  as  his  father  died  Flat  Tail  set  up  for 
somebody  great.  Whenever  any  one  questioned  his  pre 
tensions,  he  always  replied  : 

"  I  am  Mud  Dauber's  son.  I  belong  to  the  best  blood 
in  the  colony." 

He  utterly  refused  to  gnaw  or  build.  He  was  meant 
for  something  better,  he  said. 

And  so  one  day  in  autumn,  when  the  beavers  were 
going  out  in  search  of  food  for  winter  use,  as  Flat  Tail 
was  good  for  nothing  else,  they  set  him  to  mind  the  dam. 
After  they  had  started,  Flat  Tail's  uncle,  old  Mr.  Web- 
foot,  turned  back  and  told  his  nephew  to  be  very  watch 
ful,  as  there  had  been  a  great  rain  on  the  head-waters  of 
Silver  Creek,  and  he  was  afraid  there  would  be  a  flood. 

"Be  very  careful,"  said  Webfoot,  "about  the  small 
leaks." 

"  Pshaw,"  said  Flat  Tail,  "  who  are  you  talking  to  ? 
I  am  Mud  Dauber's  son,  and  do  you  think  I  need  your 
advice  ?  " 

After  they  had  gone  the  stream  began  to  rise.  Little 
sticks  and  leaves  were  eddying  round  in  the  pool  above. 
Soon  the  water  came  up  faster,  to  the  great  delight  of  the 
ponceitecj  young  beaver,  who  was  pleased  with  the  oppor 
tunity  to  show  the  rest  what  kind  of  stuff  he  was  made  of. 
And  though  he  disliked  work,  he  now  began  to  strengthen 


FLAT   TAIL,    THE   BEAVER. 


the  dam  in  the  middle  where  the  water  looked  the  most 
threatening.  But  just  at  this  point  the  dam  was  the 
strongest,  and,  in  fact,  the  least  in  danger.  Near  the 
shore  there  was  a  place  where  the  water  was  already  find 
ing  its  way  through.  A  friendly  kingfisher  who  sat  on  a 
neighboring  tree  warned  him  that  the  water  was  coming 
through,  but  always  too  conceited  to  accept  of  counsel, 
he  answered  : 

"  Oh,  that's  only  a  small  leak,  and  near  the  shore. 
What  does  a  kingfisher  know  about  a  beaver  dam  any 
way  !  You  needn't  advise  me  !  I  am  the  great  Mud 
Dauber's  son.  I  shall  fight  the  stream  bravely,  right  here 
in  the  worst  of  the  flood." 

But  Flat  Tail  soon  found  that  the  water  in  the  pond 
was  falling.  Looking  round  for  the  cause,  he  saw  that 
the  small  leak  had  broken  away  a  large  portion  of  the  dam, 
and  that  the  torrent  was  rushing  through  it  wildly.  Poor 
Flat  Tail  now  worked  like  a  hero,  throwing  himself  wildly 
into  the  water  only  to  be  carried  away  below  and  forced  to 
walk  up  again  on  the  shore.  His  efforts  were  of  no  avail, 
and  had  not  the  rest  of  the  Silver  Creek  beaver  family 
come  along  at  that  time,  their  home  and  their  winter's 
stock  of  provisions  would  alike  have  been  destroyed. 
Next  day  there  was  much  beaver  laughter  over  Flat  Tail's 
repairs  on  the  strong  part  of  the  dam,  and  the  name  that 
before  had  been  a  credit  to  him  was  turned  into  a  re 
proach,  for  from  that  day  the  beavers  called  him,  in 


1 80  QUEER   STORIES. 


derision,   "  Mud    Dauber's   son,    the   best    blood   in   the 
colony." 

Don't  neglect  a  danger  because  it  is  small ;  don't  boast 
of  what  your  father  did  ;  and  don't  be  too  conceited  to  re 
ceive  good  advice. 


THE   MOCKING-BIRD'S    SINGING-SCHOOL. 

A  LADY  brought  a  mocking-bird  from  New  Orleans 
to  her  home  in  the  North.     At  first  all  the  birds  in 
the  neighborhood  looked   upon  it  with  contempt.     The 
chill  northern  air  made  the  poor  bird  homesick,  and  for 
a  few  days  he  declined  to  sing  for  anybody. 

"Well,  I  do  declare,"  screamed  out  Miss  Guinea-fowl, 
"  to  see  the  care  our  mistress  takes  of  that  homely  bird. 
It  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  sing  a  note.  I  can  make  more 
music  than  that  myself.  Indeed,  my  voice  is  quite  oper 
atic.  Pot- rack  !  pot-rack  !  pot-rack  !  "  and  the  empty- 
headed  Miss  Guinea-fowl  nearly  cracked  her  own  throat, 
and  the  ears  of  everybody  else,  with  her  screams.  And 
the  great  vain  peacock  spread  his  sparkling  tail-feathers 
in  the  sun,  and  looked  with  annihilating  scorn  on  the  dull 
plumage  of  the  poor  mocking-bird.  "  Daddy  Longlegs," 
the  Shanghai  rooster,  crowed  louder  than  ever,  with  one 
eye  on  the  poor  jaded  bird,  and  said  :  "  What  a  con 
temptible  little  thing  you  are,  to  be  sure !  "  Gander 
White,  Esq.,  the  portly  barn-yard  alderman,  hissed  at 
him,  and  even  Duck  Waddler,  the  tadpole  catcher,  called 
him  a  quack. 


1 82  QUEER   STORIES. 


But  wise  old  Dr.  Parrot,  in  the  next  cage,  said : 
'*  Wait  and  see.  There's  more  under  a  brown  coat  than 
some  people  think." 

There  came  a  day  at  last  when  the  sun  shone  out 
warm.  Daddy  Longlegs  crowed  hoarsely  his  delight,  the 
peacock  tried  his  musical  powers  by  shouting  Ne-onk  ! 
ne-onk  !  and  Duck  Waddler  quacked  away  more  ridicu 
lously  than  ever.  Just  then  the  mocking-bird  ruffled  his 
brown  neck-feathers  and  began  to  sing.  All  the  melody 
of  all  the  song-birds  of  the  South  seemed  to  be  bottled 
up  in  that  one  little  bosom.  Even  Miss  Guinea-fowl  had 
sense  enough  to  stop  her  hideous  operatic  "  pot-rack,"  to 
listen  to  the  wonderful  sweetness  of  the  stranger's  song. 
Becoming  cheered  with  his  own  singing,  the  bird  began 
to  mimic  the  hoarse  crowing  with  which  Daddy  Longlegs 
wakened  him  in  the  morning.  This  set  the  barn-yard  in 
a  roar,  and  the  peacock  shouted  his  applause  in  a  loud 
"  ne-onk  !  "  Alas  !  for  him,  the  mocking-bird  mimicked 
his  hideous  cry,  then  quacked  like  the  duck,  and  even 
Miss  Guinea-fowl  found  that  he  could  "  pot-rack  "  better 
than  she  could. 

The  Shanghai  remarked  to  the  peacock  that  this  young 
Louisianian  was  a  remarkable  acquisition  to  the  commu 
nity  ;  Gander  White  thought  he  ought  to  be  elected  to 
the  city  council,  and  Miss  Guinea-fowl  remarked  that  she 
had  always  thought  there  was  something  in  the  young 
man.  Dr.  Parrot  laughed  quietly  at  this  last  remark. 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD'S  SINGING-SCHOOL.         183 

The  very  next  day  the  mocking-bird  was  asked  to  take 
up  a  singing-school.  The  whole  barn-yard  was  in  the  no 
tion  of  improving  the  popular  capacity  to  sing.  And 
Daddy  Longlegs  came  near  breaking  his  neck  in  his  hurry 
to  get  up  on  a  barrel-head  to  advocate  a  measure  that  he 
saw  was  likely  to  be  popular. 

But  it  did  not  come  to  anything.  The  only  song  that 
the  rooster  could  ever  sing  was  the  one  in  Mother  Goose, 
about  the  dame  losing  her  shoe  and  the  master  his  fiddle 
stick,  at  which  Professor  Mocking-bird  couldn't  help  smil 
ing.  Mr.  Peacock,  the  gentleman  of  leisure,  could  do 
nothing  more  than  his  frightful  "  ne-onk  !  "  which  made 
everybody  shiver  more  than  a  saw-file  would.  Gander 
White  said  he  himself  had  a  good  ear  for  music,  but  a 
poor  voice,  while  the  Hon.  Turkey  Pompous  said  he  had 
a  fine  bass  voice,  but  no  ear  for  tune.  Dr.  Parrot  was 
heard  to  say  "  Humbug  ! "  when  the  whole  company 
turned  to  him  for  an  explanation.  He  was  at  that  moment 
taking  his  morning  gymnastic  exercise,  by  swinging  him 
self  from  perch  to  perch,  holding  on  by  his  beak.  When 
he  got  through,  he  straightened  up  and  said  : 

"  In  the  first  place,  you  all  made  sport  of  a  stranger 
about  whom  you  knew  nothing.  I  spent  many  years  of 
my  life  with  a  learned  doctor  of  divinity,  and  I  often  heard 
him  speak  severely  of  the  sin  of  rash  judgments.  But 
when  you  found  that  our  new  friend  could  sing,  you  all 
desired  to  sing  like  him.  Now,  he  was  made  to  sing, 


184  QUEER   STORIES. 


and  each  of  the  rest  of  us  to  do  something  else.  You, 
Mr.  Gander  White,  are  good  to  make  feather  beds  and 
pillows;  Hon.  Turkey  Pompous  is  good  for  the  next 
Thanksgiving  day  ;  and  you,  Mr.  Peacock  Strutwell,  are 
good  for  nothing  but  to  grow  tail-feathers  to  make  fly- 
brushes  of.  But  we  all  have  our  use.  If  we  will  all  do 
our  best  to  be  as  useful  as  we  can  in  our  own  proper 
sphere,  we  will  do  better.  There  is  our  neighbor,  Miss 
Sophie  Jones,  who  has  wasted  two  hours  a  day  for  the 
last  ten  years,  trying  to  learn  music,  when  nature  did  not 
give  her  musical  talent,  while  Peter  Thompson,  across  the 
street,  means  to  starve  to  death,  trying  to  be  a  lawyer, 
without  any  talent  for  it.  Let  us  keep  in  our  own  proper 
spheres." 

The  company  hoped  he  would  say  more,  but  Dr.  Par 
rot  here  began  to  exercise  again,  in  order  to  keep  his  di 
gestion  good,  and  the  rest  dispersed. 


THE   BOBOLINK   AND   THE   OWL. 

T  T  AVING  eaten  his  breakfast  of  beech-nuts,  a  bobo- 
•*•  ^  link  thought  he  would  show  himself  neighborly ; 
so  he  hopped  over  to  an  old  gloomy  oak  tree,  where 
there  sat  a  hooting  owl,  and  after  bowing  his  head  grace 
fully,  and  waving  his  tail  in  the  most  friendly  manner,  he 
began  chirruping  cheerily,  somewhat  in  this  fashion  : 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Owl !  what  a  fine  bright  morn 
ing  we  have." 

"Fine!"  groaned  the  owl,  "fine,  indeed!  I  don't 
see  how  you  can  call  it  fine  with  that  fierce  sun  glaring  in 
one's  eyes." 

The  bobolink  was  quite  disconcerted  by  this  outburst, 
but  after  jumping  about  nervously  from  twig  to  twig  fora 
while,  he  began  again  : 

"  What  a  beautiful  meadow  that  is  which  you  can  see 
from  your  south  window  !  How  sweet  the  flowers  look  ! 
Really  you  have  a  pleasant  view,  if  your  house  is  a  little 
gloomy." 

"  Beautiful  !  did  you  say  ?  Pleasant !  What  sort  of 
taste  you  must  have  !  I  haven't  been  able  to  look  out  of 
that  window  since  May.  The  color  of  the  grass  is  too 


1 86  QUEER   STORIES. 


bright,  and  the  flowers  are  very  painful.  I  don't  mind 
that  view  so  much  in  November,  but  this  morning  I  must 
find  a  shadier  place,  where  the  light  won't  disturb  my 
morning  nap." 

And  so,  with  a  complaining  "  Hoo  !  hoo  !  hoo-ah !  " 
he  flapped  his  melancholy  wings  and  flitted  away  into  the 
depths  of  a  swamp. 

And  a  waggish  old  squirrel,  who  had  heard  the  con 
versation,  asked  the  bobolink  how  he  could  expect  any 
one  to  like  beautiful  things  who  looked  out  of  such  great 
staring  eyes. 

The  pleasantness  of  our  surroundings  depends  far 
more  upon  the  eyes  we  see  with,  than  upon  the  objects 
about  us. 


THE  END. 


THE   HOOSIER  SCHOOL-BOY. 

BY   EDWARD    EGGLESTON, 

Author  of  'lThe  Hoosier  Schoolmaster,"  etc. 
With  full  page  Illustrations.      I  vol. ,  I2mo $l.oo 

Mr.  Eggleston  is  one  of  the  very  few  American  novelists  who  have  succeeded  in 
giving  to  their  work  a  genuine  savor  of  the  soil,  a  distinctively  American  character. 
His  Roxy,  Hoosier  Schoolmaster,  Circuit  Rider,  and  the  rest,  are  home-spun  and 
native  in  all  their  features.  The  scene  of  the  stories  is  the  Western  Reserve,  and 
the  characters  are  types  of  the  pioneers  of  the  early  part  of  this  century,  in  the 
territory  now  comprised  in  Indiana  and  Ohio. 

The  Hoosier  School  boy,  as  its  title  shows,  belongs  to  the  same  locality,  and 
depicts  some  of  the  characteristics  of  boy  life,  years  ago,  on  the  Ohio,  character 
istics,  however,  that  were  not  peculiar  to  that  section  only.  The  story  presents  a 
vivid  and  interesting  picture  of  the  difficulties  which  in  those  days  beset  the  path  of 
the  youth  aspiring  for  an  education.  These  obstacles,  which  the  hero  of  the  story 
succeeds  by  his  genuine  manliness  and  force  of  character  in  surmounting,  are  just 
such  as  a  majority  of  the  most  distinguished  Americans,  in  all  walks  of  life, 
including  Lincoln  and  Garfield,  have  had  to  contend  with,  and  which  they  have 
made  the  stepping  stone  to  their  future  greatness.  Mr.  Bush's  strong  and  life-like 
illustrations  add  much  to  the  attractiveness  of  the  book. 

"  Edward  Eggleston's  new  story  is  a  thoroughly  excellent  one  to  be  put  in  the  hands  of  a  boy 
whose  parents  wish  him  to  become  a  manly,  high-minded  American  citizen." — Philadelphia 
Bulletin. 

"A  particularly  wholesome  volume.  There  is  a  delightful  absence  of  the  goody-good  in  it. 
and  the  incidents  are  all  natural  and  true  to  life." — Madison  (Ind.)  Courier. 

"  Nobody  has  pictured  boy-life  with  greater  power  or  more  fidelity  than  Mr.  Eggleston. 
This  story  is  one  of  his  best— it  should  be  in  the  hands  of  every  boy." — Hartford  Times. 

"  It  has  all  the  peculiarities  of  its  author  ;  his  careful  reproduction  of  nature,  his  vivid 
descriptions,  and  the  naturalness  of  his  characters,  drawn,  as  they  must  have  been,  from  life.*'— 
Indianapolis  Neivs. 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS,   PUBLISHERS, 

743  &  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


THE  MERRY  ADVENTURES  OF  ROBIN 

HOOD. 

OF  GREAT  RENOWN  IN  NOTTINGHAMSHIRE. 

WRITTEN  AND  ILLUSTRATED  BY  HOWARD  PYLE. 

One  volume,  4to,  full  embossed  leather,  antique,  from  the  author's  designs.  .$4.50 
Cheaper  edition,  i  vol.,  small  quarto,  cloth $3.00 

There  is  something  thoroughly  English  and  home-bred  in  these  episodes  in  the 
life  of  the  bold  outlaw.  His  sunny,  open  air  nature,  his  matchless  skill  at  archery, 
his  generous  disposition,  his  love  of  fair  play,  and  his  ever  present  courtesy  to 
women,  form  a  picture  that  has  no  counterpart  in  the  folk-lore  of  any  other  people. 
The  simple  ballad  English  has  been  most  successfully  preserved  in  Mr.  Pyle's  easy 
prose,  and,  as  regards  the  text,  this  edition  is  in  all  respects  the  most  complete  and 
in  every  way  the  most  desirable  that  has  ever  been  issued. 

But  it  has  other  claims  to  notice  in  the  admirable  illustrations  which  Mr.  Pyle 
hes  strewn  profusely  throughout  his  book.  These  pictures  set  forth  most  graphic 
ally  every  eventful  scene  in  the  narrative,  and  they  are  in  perfect  keeping  with  the 
story,  even  to  the  smallest  detail ;  as  specimens  of  figure-drawing  they  form  the 
most  admirable  and  artistic  series  that  an  American  artist  has  created  for  many 
years.  In  them  the  persons  of  Robin  Hood,  Little  John,  Will  Stutely,  the  Sheriff 
of  Nottingham,  Allan-a-Dale,  Queen  Eleanor,  Friar  Tuck,  and  all  the  rest,  become 
as  familiar  as  their  names  and  characteristics. 

"A  volume  that  stands  at  the  head  of  books  for  the  young,  both  in  the  attractiveness  of  its 
letter-press,  and  singular  beauty,  variety,  and  antique  character  of  its  illustrations.  *  *  *  It 
J3  a  book  cf  varied  delight,  a  credit  to  the  author,  illustrator  and  publisher,  and  will  please  every 
boy  who  has  taste  and  likes  to  see  a  thorough  piece  of  work." — Hartford  Courant. 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS,    PUBLISHERS, 

743  &  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


THE   STORY   OF  SIEGFRIED. 

BY  JAMES  BALDWIN. 

With   a   series   of  superb   illustrations   by   Howard  Pyle.      One  volume,  square 
I2mo $2.OO 

"To  wise  parents  who  strive,  as  all  parents  should  do,  to  regulate  and  supervise  their  chil 
dren's  i  eading,  this  book  is  most  earnestly  commended.  Would  there  were  more  of  its  type  and 
excellence.  It  has  our  most  hearty  approval  and  recommendation  in  every  way,  not  only  for 
beauty  of  illustration,  which  is  of  the  highest  order,  but  for  the  fascinating  manner  in  which  the 
old  Noise  legend  is  told." — The  Churchman. 

"  What  more  calculated  to  inspire  the  courage,  to  elevate  the  imagination,  to  mould  the  con 
duct  of  youth,  than  these  reproductions  of  the  heroic  legends  of  the  old  Norse  and  German  folk  ?" 
— Minneapolis  Tribune. 

"  No  more  delightful  reading  for  the  young  can  be  imagined  than  that  provided  in  this  inter 
esting  book,  and  the  manner  of  the  recital  is  so  graceful  that  older  readers  will  derive  from  it 
scarcely  less  pleasure.'' — Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"  The  story  is  told  simply  and  strongly,  preserving  the  fire  and  force  of  the  original,  and  not 
losing  the  subtle  charm  of  the  old  fable  with  all  its  pathetic  beauty." — Brooklyn  Union-Argus. 

"  It  is  a  good,  strong  story  ;  it  comes  in  among  the  mass  of  juvenile  books  like  a  wind  blown 
from  Northern  woods." — Philadelphia  Sunday-School  Times. 


THE   STORY  OF   ROLAND. 

BY  JAMES  BALDWIN. 
With  a  series  of  illustrations  by  R.  B.  Birch.     One  volume,  square  I2mo. . .  .$2.00 

This  volume  is  intended  as  a  companion  to  The  Story  of  Siegfried.  As  Sieg 
fried  was  an  adaptation  of  Northern  myths  and  romances  to  the  wants  and  the 
understanding  of  young  readers,  so  is  this  story  a  similar  adaptation  of  the  middle- 
age  romances  relating  to  Charlemagne  and  his  paladins.  As  Siegfried  was  the 
greatest  of  the  heroes  of  the  North,  so  too  was  Roland  the  most  famous  among  the 
Knights  of  the  Middle-Ages.  While  The  Story  of  Siegfried  exemplifies  the  sub 
lime  old-world  spirit  of  the  Gothic  nature  myths,  its  counterpart,  The  Story  of 
Roland^  is  less  remote,  and  the  incidents,  though  equally  wonderful,  are  of  a  more 
human  character  and  appeal  with  greater  force  to  our  sympathies. 

Mr.  Birch  has  contributed  a  number  of  spirited  illustrations  that  bring  clearly 
before  the  eye  the  forms  of  Roland  and  his  friend  Oliver,  of  Ogier,  the  Dane,  and 
other  famous  knights  and  paladins,  as  well  as  the  scenes  of  their  wondrous  exploits 
and  adventures. 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS,    PUBLISHERS. 

743  &  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


THE    AMERICAN    BOY'S    HANDY    BOOK 
Or,  What  to  Do  and  How  to  Do  It. 


BY  DANIEL  C.  BEARD. 
Fully  illustrated  by  the  author.     One  volume,  8vo $3.o( 

Mr.  Beard's  book  is  the  first  to  tell  the  active \  inventive  and  practical  America? 
boy  the  things  he  really  wants  to  know;  the  thousand  things  he  wants  to  do,  and  th, 
ten  thousand  ways  in  which  he  can  do  them,  with  the  helps  and  ingenious  contri 
vnnces  which  every  boy  can  either  procure  or  make.  The  author  divides  the  bool 
among  the  sports  of  the  four  seasons  ;  and  he  has  made  an  almost  exhaustive  col 
lection  of  the  cleverest  modern  devices, — besides  himself  inventing  an  immens< 
number  of  capital  and  practical  ideas — in 


Kite-Making, 
Fishing, 

Aquarium-Making, 
Etc. 


. 

Boat-Building, 

Ice-I 

• 

oc 

Boat-Rigging, 

Sno\ 

111 

5. 

Boat-Sailing, 

Win 

SE 

Camping-Out, 

Sled 

3 
CO 

Balloons, 

Pupi 

Etc. 

E 

Trapping, 
Taxidermy, 
Home-Made  Hunting 
Apparatus,  etc. 


Snow-Ball  Warfare, 


I 


"  We  can  conceive  of  few  books  more  useful  and  instructive  to  the  average  boy  than  this."- 
Troy  Times. 

"  This  is  by  far  the  most  intelligible,  comprehensive  and  practical  boy's  book  which  we  hav< 
ever  seen." — Kingston  Freeman. 

"When  selecting  books  for  a  boy  it  should  be  remembered  that  such  a  one  as  this  tends  t( 
make  him  handy,  skillful  and  self-reliant,  and  that  the  boy  would  probably  choose  it  himself."— 
Boston  Globe. 

"  Each  particular  department  is  minutely  illustrated,  and  the  whole  is  a  complete  treasury 
invaluable  not  only  to  the  boys  themselves,  but  to  parents  and  guardians  who  have  at  heart  thei 
happiness  and  healthful  development  of  mind  and  muscle."— Pittsburgh  Telegraph. 

"  The  boy  who  has  learned  to  play  all  the  games  and  make  all  the  toys  of  which  it  teaches 
has  unconsciously  exercised  the  inventive  faculty  that  is  in  him,  has  acquired  skill  with  his  hands 
and  hko  become  a  good  mechanic  and  an  embryo  inventor  without  knowing  it." — Milivauke* 
Evening  Wisconsin. 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS,   PUBLISHERS, 

743  &  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


THE    BOY'S    LIBRARY   OF    LEGEND    AND 
CHIVALRY. 


THE     BOY'S    PERCY. 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by  SIDNEY  LANIER.     With  50  text  and  full  page 

illustrations  by  E.  B.  Bensell.     I  vol.,  I2mo $2.00 

14  He  who  walks  in  the  way  these  following  ballads  point  will  be  manful  in  necessary  fight, 
fair  in  trade,  loyal  in  love,  generous  to  the  poor,  tender  in  the  household,  prudent  in  living,  plain 
in  speech,  merry  upon  occasion,  simple  in  behavior,  and  honest  in  all  tilings." — Front  Mr. 
LanieS-s  Introduction. 

KNIGHTLY    LEGENDS    OF    WALES;    or, 
THE   BOY'S    MABINOGION. 

Being  the  Earliest  Welsh  Tales  of  King  Arthur  in  the  famous  Red  Book  of 
Hergest.  Edited  for  Boys,  with  an  Introduction  by  SIDNEY  LANIER.  With 
12  full-page  illustrations  by  Alfred  Fredericks.  One  volume,  crown  8vo, 
extra  cloth $2.00 

"  Amid  all  the  strange  and  fanciful  scenery  of  these  stories,  character  and  the  ideals  of  char 
acter  remain  at  the  simplest  and  purest.  The  romantic  history  transpires  in  the  healthy  atmos 
phere  of  the  open  air  on  the  green  earth  beneath  the  open  sky.  .  .  .  The  figures  of  Right, 
Truth,  Justice,  Honor,  Purity,  Courage,  Reverence  for  Law  are  always  in  the  background  ;  and 
the  grand  passion  inspired  by  the  book  is  for  strength  to  do  well  and  nobly  in  the  world." — The 
Independent. 

THE    BOY'S    KING    ARTHUR. 

Being  Sir  Thomas  Mallory's  History  of  King  Arthur  and  his  Knights  of  the  Round 
Table.  Edited  for  Boys,  with  an  Introduction  by  SIDNEY  LANIER.  With  12 
full-page  illustrations  by  Alfred  Kappes.  One  volume,  crown  8vo,  extra 
cloth $2.00 

"  Unconsciously  as  he  reads  of  the  brave  deeds  wrought  by  the  gallant  soldiers  told  of  by 
Frpissart  or  fancied  by  Mallory,  the  boy's  heart  is  thrilled  and  his  higher  nature  throbs  with 
knightly  longings.  He  craves  for  himself  the  sturdy  courage  of  Bevis  of  Hampton,  the  courtly 
grace  of  Launcelot,  the  purity  of  Gallahad  ;  and  he  hates  with  an  honest  hatred  that  unleal 
scoundrel,  King  Mark.  He  learns  that  he  should  protect  those  who  are  less  strong  than  he  is 
himself  ;  that  a  man  should  never  be  rude  to  a  woman  ;  that  truth  must  never  be  sacrificed,  and 
that  the  most  cowardly  thing  that  a  man  can  do  is  to  flinch  from  his  duty." — Philadelphia. 


THE    BOY'S    FROISSART. 

Being  Sir  John  Froissart's  Chronicles  of  Adventure,  Battle  and  Custom  in  England, 
France,  Spain,  etc.  Edited  for  Boys,  with  an  Introduction  by  SIDNEY 
LANIER.  With  12  full-page  illustrations  by  Alfred  Kappes.  One  volume, 
crown  8vo,  extra  cloth $2.00 


"  It  is  quite  the  beau  ideal  of  a  book  for  a  present  to  an  intelligent  boy  or  girl.  *  *  * 
Sidney  Lamer,  in  editing  a  boy's  version  of  Froissart,  has  not  only  opened  to  them  a  wor 
romantic  and  poetic  legend  of  the  chivalric  and  heroic  sort,  but  he  has  given  them  some 


Mr. 

world  of 
something 
which  ennobles  and  does  not  poison  the  mind     — Baltimore  Gazette. 


***  In  sets.     Four  volumes  put  up  in  a  box,  uniform  binding,  $7* 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS,   PUBLISHERS, 

743  &  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


WILLIAM    O.    STODDARD'S    CAPITAL 
STORIES    FOR    BOYS. 

The  Boston  Globe  says  of  Mr.  Stoddard's  books  for  boys : 

"It  was  a  bold  attempt,  in  the  face  of  the  great  success  of  sensational  literature  for  the  young, 
to  seek  to  bend  boys  to  self-reliance,  duty  and  honor,  by  interesting  them  in  the  incidents  and 
rewards  of  manly  boy-life  at  home  and  at  school,  and  in  its  games  and  sports  ;  and  a  go^d  deal  of 
knowledge  of  boy  character,  of  sympathy  with  boy  nature,  and  skill  in  reaching  boy  interest,  and 
regard,  we  e  required  to  accomplish  his  purpose.  The  plan  was  a  noble  one,  and  its  results  are  a 
triumph  which  shows  that  it  is  possible,  without  thrilling  adventure  on  the  ocean  or  in  Western 
wilds,  in  exciting  scenes  of  peril  and  death,  or  unnatural  and  bad  characters  and  situations,  to 
secure  the  earnest  attention  cf  boys  and  their  approval." 

SALTILLO     BOYS. 

One  volume,  I2mo $1.00 

"  The  story  appeals  to  boys,  not  only  on  their  better  side,  but  on  the  side  which  h  strongest 
and  highest  in  the  boy  view  of  the  matter." — The  Independent. 


DAB     KINZER. 

^v.    Story   of  a,    G-;ro-vv±:ng    IBoy. 
One  volume,  I2mo. ...    f  i.oo 

11  It  is  written  in  that  peculiarly  happy  vein  which  enchants  while  it  instructs,  arrl  is  one  of 
those  thoroughly  excellent  bits  of  juvenile  liteiature  which  now  and  then  crop  out  fro  u  the  sur 
face  of  a  mass  of  common-place." — Philadelphia  Press. 


THE     QUARTET. 

to    "ZDetTo 
One  volume,  I2mo $1.00 

"  The  Quartet  is  marked  by  all  the  brightness  and  incident  which  made  l  Dab  Kinzer  '  such 
a  favorite  with  the  boys." — Examiner  and  Chronicle. 


AMONG     THE    LAKES. 

One  volume,  I2mo $1.00 

Mr.  Stoddard's  bright,  sympathetic  story,  Among  the  Lakes,  is  a  fitting  com 
panion  to  his  other  books.  It  has  the  same  flavor  of  happy,  boyish  country  life, 
brimful  of  humor  and  abounding  with  incident  and  the  various  adventures  of 
healthy,  well-conditioned  boys  turned  loose  in  the  country,  with  all  the  resources 
of  woods  and  water  and  their  own  unspoiled  natures. 

V  Mr-  Stoddard's  stories,  DAB  KINZER,  THE  QUARTET, 
SALTILLO  BOYS,  and  AMONG  THE  LAKES,  are  furnished  in  sets, 
in  uniform  binding,  in  a  box.  Price,  $4.00. 

They  are  especially  recommended  for  Sunday-school  libraries. 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS,    PUBLISHERS, 

743  &  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


NOAH  BROOKS9  OUT-OF-DOOR  STORIES 
TOR  BOYS. 


THE    FAIRPORT    NINE. 

BY  NOAH  BROOKS, 
Author  of"  The  Boy  Emigrants" 

One  volume,  I2mo $1.25 

The  Fairport  Nine  have  their  closely  contested  base-ball  matches  with  the  "White  Bears," 
and  the  description  will  bring  vividly  before  every  lover  of  that  manly  sport  similar  scenes  in 
which  he  has  shared .  But  they  also  have  their  Fourth  of  July  frolic,  their  military  company, 
their  camp  in  the  woods,  and  the  finding  of  hidden  treasure,  with  many  boyish  episodes,  in  which 
are  faithfully  portrayed  the  characteristic  features  of  American  boys'  life  in  the  country.  It  is  a 
capital  story,  with  a  manly  and  healthful  tone,  and  will  go  straight  to  a  boy's  heart. 

"  As  a  thoroughly  wholesome  and  delightful  book  for  boys,  *  The  Fairport  Nine'  is  not  likely 
to  have  its  superior  this  season.  It  is  published,  moreover,  in  an  attractive  form,  with  a  taking 
cover  and  frontispiece."  --N.  Y.  Evening  Mail. 


THE    BOY   EMIGRANTS. 

BY  NOAH  BROOKS. 

One  volume,  ^mo,  cloth.      New  edition.     With  Illustrations  by  Thomas  Moran, 
W.  L.  Sheppard,  and  others $1.50 

"  The  Boy  Emigrants  "  is  a  story  of  the  adventures  of  a  party  of  young  gold  seekers  on  the 
Overland  Emigrant  Route,  and  in  California,  during  the  early  rush  to  the  mines.  Since  the 
author  was'himself  an  emigrant  of  this  description,  the  scenes  and  incidents  are  drawn  from  life, 
and  the  book  may  be  accepted  as  a  fresh  and  vivid  picture  of  life  on  the  Plains  and  in  the  mines 
from  an  entirely  novel  point  of  view. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  best  boy's  stories  we  have  ever  read.  There  is  nothing  morbid  or  unhealthy 
about  it.  The  author  sets  before  his  readers  no  impossible  goodness  or  unattainable  perfection. 
His  heroes  are  thorough  boys,  with  all  the  faults  of  their  age." — Christian  at  Work. 

"  We  do  not  think  we  have  had  so  far  any  painting  of  the  scenes  on  the  Plains  in  the  early 
days  of  the  emigration  to  this  State  which,  artistically,  will  at  all  compare  with  that  dashed  off 
by  Mr.  Brooks.  The  sketches  of  mining  adventures  which  subsequently  occurred  have  the  rare 
merit  of  being  true  to  the  life  and  the  fact,"— Sa,n  Francisco  Bulletin, 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS.   PUBLISHERS, 

743  &  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


MRS.  MARY  MAPES  DODGE'S  CHARMING 

BOOKS. 


A  NEW  ILLUSTRATED  EDITION  OF 

HANS    BRINKER;    or,    the    Silver    Skates. 

-A.   Stcxry   of  I-iife  ±30.  ZE3Collgt:n.cl. 

BY  MRS.   MARY  MAPES  DODGE, 
A  utf>or  of  ' ' Rhymes  and  Jingles, "  and  Editor  of  ' '  St.  Nicholas. " 

With  twelve  full-page  illustrations.      One  vol.  I2mo,  cloth,  beveled  edges.. .  .$1.50 

14  For  children,  what  could  be  better  as  a  gift  than  a  copy  of  Mrs.  Dodgers  'Hans  Brinker  ; 
or,  the  Silver  Skates,'  of  which  we  are  now  given  a  new  and  beautiful  edition  ?  This  is  one  of  the 
most  charming  of  juvenile  stories,  dealing  with  fresh  scenes  and  a  strange  life,  and  told  with  sweet 
simplicity  and  great  beauty." — Congregationalist. 

"  l  Hans  Brinker '  is  a  charming  domestic  story,  which  is  addressed,  indeed,  to  young  people, 
but  which  may  be  read  with  pleasure  and  profit  by  their  elders.  *  *  The  lessons  inculcated, 
are  elevated  in  tone,  and  are  in  the  action  of  the  story  and  the  feelings  and  aspirations  of  the 
actors."— 7%#  Atlantic  Monthly. 

"  This  book  has  been  a  great  favorite,  not  only  in  America  but  in  other  lands.  The  author 
has  every  reason  to  be  gratified  at  the  success  and  constant  popularity  of  this  charming  narrative, 
which  teaches  so  finely  the  noblest  lessons  of  character  and  life,  while  picturing  the  customs  and 
scenes  of  Holland." — Boston  Advertiser. 


RHYMES    AND    JINGLES. 

BY  MRS.  MARY  MAPES  DODGE, 
Editor  of  "St.   Nicholas." 

Profusely  illustrated.     One  vol.  small  quarto,  extra  cloth,  a  new  edition $1.50 

There  are  in  this  collection  nonsense  rhymes  and  verses  of  the  soundest  sense  ;  there  are 
brief  bits  of  wisdom  for  little  folks,  and  stories  in  verse  for  those  who  are  older,  while  some  of  the 
so-called  rhymes  include  verses  which  are  as  truly  poetical  as  anything  in  the  language. 

Some  of  these  poems  have  been  pronounced  "  without  rivals  in  our  language."  In  the  new 
edition  now  published,  Mrs.  Dodge  has  made  a  careful  revision  of  the  work.  Every  child  should 
have  a  copy  of  these  witty  and  beautiful  verses. 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS,    PUBLISHERS, 

743  &  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


GODFREY    MORGAN. 

A   CALIFORNIA  MYSTERY. 
BY  JULES  VERNE. 

With  numerous  illustrations.     One  volume.     I2ino $2.0 

Jules  Verne's  cyclopedic  fancy  this  time  finds  scope  for  its  vagaries  in  the  Cal 
fornian  Eldorado,  among  the  millionaires  of  absolutely  limitless  resources,  wh< 
the  French  romancer  would  have  us  believe,  form  a  large  class  of  the  populatio 
around  the  Golden  Gate.  Nevertheless,  the  story  is  of  the  Crusoe  order,  and 
concerned  with  the  adventures  of  the  restless  young  Californian,  Godfrey  Morgai 
and  his  companion,  the  dancing-master,  Tartlet,  upon  a  strange  island  where  the 
have  been  wrecked.  The  story  is  one  of  the  most  amazing  efforts  of  Verne's  geniu: 
and  certainly  lacks  neither  interest  nor  amusement.  The  illustrations  are  vei 
numerous  and  equal  the  text  in  force  and  character. 


PHAETON     ROGERS. 

By  ROSSITER  JOHNSON.     One  volume.  i2mo.     With  illustrations $1.50 

"  As  for  *  Phaeton  Rogers,'  the  adventures  of  that  remarkable  boy  and  his  colleagues  wh 
investigate  the  mysteries  of  the  art  preservative,  are  full  of  delightful  humor,  in  which  the  olde: 
member  of  the  family  can  sympathize." — Minneapolis  Journal. 

"  One  of  the  funniest,  liveliest  juvenile  stories  of  the  year  is  l  Phaeton  Rogers,'  by  Rossite 
Johnson.  The  writer  shows  as  much  ingenuity  in  inventing  comical  adventures  and  situations  2 
Phaeton  does  with  his  kite-teams,  fire-ladders,  and  comets." — Holyoke  Transcript. 


A  NEW  EDITION  A  T  REDUCED  PRICE. 

ABOUT     OLD    STORY-TELLERS. 

OF  HOW  AND  WHEN  THEY  LIVED,  AND  WHAT.  STORIES  THE'! 
TOLD.  By  DONALD  G.  MITCHELL.  Author  of  "The  Reveries  of  a  Bach 
elor,"  etc.,  etc.  With  numerous  illustrations.  One  volume,  I2mo.  . .  .$1.25 

•'  Mr.  Mitchell's  literary  style,  so  chaste,  simple  and  pure,  is  admirably  adapted  for  this  kin; 
of  writing,  and  he  employs  his  facile  and  congenial  pen,  in  the  present  instance,  with  entire  sue 
cess.  l  About  Old  Story-Tellers'  is  made  up  cf  the  best  of  the  old  stories,  gathered  from  al 
sources,  re-told  in  Mr.  Mitche.l's  inimitable  manner,  and  interwoven  with  lively  sketches  of  th 
original  writers  and  the  times  in  which  they  flourished." — New  Haven  Journal  and  Courier. 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS,   PUBLISHERS, 

743  &  745  BROADWAY,   NEW  YORK, 


FRANK    R.    STOCKTON'S    POPULAR 
STORIES. 

"  Stockton  has  the  knack,  perhaps  genius  would  be  a  better  word,  of  writing  in  the  easiest  of 
:olloquial  English  without  descending  to  the  plane  of  the  vulgar  or  common-place.  The  very 
perfection  of  his  work  hinders  the  reader  from  perceiving  at  once  how  good  of  its  kind  it  is.  *  * 
With  the  added  charm  of  a  most  delicate  humor — a  real  humor,  mellow,  tender,  and  informed  by 
a  s  ngularly  quaint  and  racy  fancy — his  stories  become  irresistibly  attractive." — Philadelphia. 
Times. 

A    JOLLY    FELLOWSHIP. 

By   FRANK    R.    STOCKTON,   author  of  "Rudder  Grange."      Illustrated.     I  vol., 
I2mo,  extra  cloth $1.50 


THE    FLOATING   PRINCE,   AND    OTHER    FAIRY 

TALES. 

By   FRANK   R.    STOCKTON.      With  illustrations  by  Bensell  and  others,     i  vol., 
quarto,  Boaids,  New  Edition.     Price  reduced  to $1.50 


NEW  EDITIONS    OF    OLD    FAVORITES. 


THE     TING-A-LING     TALES. 

By  FRANK  R.  STOCKTON.     Illustrated  by  E.  B.  Bensell.     i  vol.,  I2mo $1.00 


ROUNDABOUT    RAMBLES    IN  LANDS   OF    FACT 
AND     FICTION. 

By  FRANK  R.   STOCKTON.     I  vol.,  4to,  boards,  with  very  attractive  lithographed 
cover,  3  70  pages,  200  illustrations.  A  new  edition.  Price  reduced  from  $3  to  $i .  50 


TALES    OUT     OF     SCHOOL. 

By  FRANK  R.  STOCKTON.     One  volume,  4to,  boards,  with  handsome  lithographed 
cover,  350  pages,   nearly  200  illustrations.     A  new  edition.     Price  reduced 

from  $3  to *i-5° 

'•''The  Roundabout  Rambles  and  Tales  Out  of  School  are  two  large  handsome  volumes,  fuU 
of  stories  of  home,  travel  and  adventure,  and  the  elegance  and  finish  of  the  engravings  can 
scarcely  be  surpassed  in  juvenile  literature.  Without  and  within,  they  are  a  treasury  of  beauty 
aid  enjoyment  for  the  children." — St.  Paul  Pioneer. 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS,   PUBLISHERS, 

743  &  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


STANDARD  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 


TRAVEL,   HISTORY,   SCIENCE   AND   AR1 


A  NEW  EDITION  A  T  REDUCED  PRICE. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR'S   LIBRARY  OF  TRAVEL. 

6  Pols.)  Square  12mo,  with  many  illustrations.     Handsomely  bound. 


JAPAN  IN  OUR  DAY. 
TRAVELS  IN  ARABIA. 
TRAVELS  IN  SOUTH  AFRICA. 
CENTRAL  ASIA. 


THE  LAKE   REGIONS    OF  CENTR/ 

AFRICA. 
SIAM,  THE   LAND    OF  THE  WHH 

ELEPHANT. 


Price   per    set,   in   a   box, 

or  sold  separately  at  $1.25  per  volume. 


$G.< 


EPOCHS  OF  HISTORY. 


"  These   volumes   contain   the  ripe  results 
respective  fields." — The  Nation. 

EPOCHS  OF   MODERN  HiSTORY. 
THE  ERA    OF    PROTESTANT  REVO 
LUTION. 
THE    CRUSADES. 

THE  THIRTY  YEARS'  WAR,  1618-1648. 
THE  HOUSES  OF   LANCASTER  AND 

YORK. 
THE    FRENCH     REVOLUTION    AND 

FIRST  EMPIRE. 
THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 
THE  FALL  OF  THE  STUARTS. 
THE  PURITAN  REVOLUTION. 
THE  EARLY  PLANTAGENETS. 
AGE  OF  ANNE. 
THE  BEGINNING  OF    THE    MIDDLE 

AGES. 

THE  NORMANS  IN  EUROPE. 
FREDERICK  THE  GREAT  AND  THE 

SEVEN  YEARS'  WAR. 
THE  EPOCH  OF  REFORM,  1830-1850. 


of  the  studies  of  men  who  are  authorities  in  th 

(  EPOCHS  OF  ANCIENT  HISTORY. 

THE  GREEKS  AND  THE  PERSIAN 
THE  ATHENIAN  EMPIRE. 
THE  MACEDONIAN    EMPIRE. 
EARLY  ROME. 

THE  GRACCHI,  MARIUS  AND  SULL 
•THE  ROMAN  TRIUMVIRATES. 
THE  EARLY  EMPIRE. 
THE  AGE  OF  THE  ANTONINES. 
ROME  AND  CARTHAGE. 
TROY. 

THE    SPARTAN    AND    THEBAN    SI 
PREMACY.     (In  press.) 


*#*  Each  one  vol.,  IGmo,  with  Map 

Each  volume  complete  in  itsel 
and  sold  separately. 

Price  per  vol.,  in  cloth,         -  $1  C 


The  same  in  sets,  Roxburgh  binding,  gilt  top,  at  therate  of  $1.OO  per  vol. 


ILLUSTRATED  LIBRARY  OF  WONDERS. 


THE  FIRST   SERIES  COMPRISES: 


Illus. 

WONDERFUL   ESCAPES...   26 

BODILY  STRENGTH  AND   SKILL. .70 

BALLOON  ASCENTS 30 

GREAT    HUNTS...  22 

EGYPT  3,300  YEARS  AGO 4° 

THE  SUN.     By  Guillemin 58 

WONDERS  OF  HEAT 93 

OPTICAL    WONDERS 71 

WONDERS  OF  ACOUSTICS no 

THE  HEAVENS  48 


///* 


THE  HUMAN    BODY.. 

THE  SUBLIME  IN  NATURE 

INTELLIGENCE  OF  ANIMALS 

THUNDER  AND  LIGHTNING... 

BOTTOM  OF  THE  SEA 

ITALIAN  ART 

EUROPEAN  ART 

ARCHITECTURE 

GLASS-MAKING 

WONDERS  OF  POMPEII... 


Price  per  single  vol.,  cloth, 

The  same,  insets  of  20  vols.,  cloth,  with  a  rack, 


$1.25 
&6.OO 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS,   PUBLISHERS, 

743  &  745  BROADWAY.  NEW  YORK. 


THE    WORKS    OF    JULES    VERNE. 

THE  COMPLETE  AND  AUTHORIZED  EDITIONS. 


JULES  VERNE'S  GREA  TEST  WORK 

THE    EXPLORATION    OF    THE    WORLD. 

?hree  volumes,  8vo,  extra  cloth,  with  100  full-page  engravings  in  each.     Price  per 
volume  ..........................................................  $3.50  f 

The  work  includes  three  divisions,  each  in  one  volume  complete  in  itself. 

.  Famous  Travels  and  Travellers. 
II.  The  Great  Navigators. 

III.  The  Explorers  of  the  Nineteenth  Century. 

Each  volume  in  the  series  is  very  fully  illustrated  with  full-page  engravings  by  French  arti  ts 
f  note  ;  and  the  volume  of  "  FAMOUS  TRAVELS  "  is  made  still  more  interesting  by  many 
ac-similes  from  the  original  prints  in  old  voyages,  atlases,  etc. 

kl  Even  if  truth  were  not  stranger  than  net  on,  to  the  healthful  mind  it  ought  to  be  far  more 
ascinating.  Such  works  as  this  are  not  only  entertaining  and  informing,  but  their  whole  atmcs- 
>here  is  bracing.  They  are  as  much  better  than  sentimental  heart  histories  or  imaginary  per- 
onal  experiences  as  a  day  in  the  open  air  is  better  than  a  day  in  a  close  and  crowded  apartment.  " 
-N.  y.  Observer, 

•'  The  book  may  very  well  be  a  favorite  at  the  holiday  time,  but  it  has  permanent  worth  and 
icrmanent  interest  also,  which  will  give  it  a  place  in  well-selected  libraries."  —  N,  Y.  Evening 


JULES  VERNE'S  OTHER  WORKS. 


Michael  Strogoff;  or,  the  Courier 

of  the  Czar.  Profusely  illustrated  after 
designs  by  Riou.  I  vol.,  8vo.  New  edi 
tion $2.00 

fhe    Mysterious    Island.      Vol.    I. 

Dropped  from  the  Clouds.  Vol.  II.  Aban 
doned.  Vol.  III.  The  Secret  of  the  Island. 
The  complete  work  in  i  vol.  with  150  illus 
trations.  8vo $3.00 

\  Journey   to  the    Centre   of  the 

Earth.  With  52  full-page  illustrations,  i 
vol.,  8vo $3.00 

Stories  of  Adventure.      Comprising 

"  Meridiana,"  and  "  A  Journey  to  the 
Centre  of  the  Earth."  68  full-page  illus 
trations,  i  vol.,  i2mo $1.50 

\  Floating  City,  and  the  Blockade 

Runners.  With  numerous  illustrations,  i 
vol.,  8vOM  extra  cloth,  gilt.  (New  edi 
tion) $2.00 


Hector  Servadac ;  or,  The  Career 

of  a  Comet.  With  over  100  full-page  illus 
trations,  i  vol.,  8vo,  elegantly  bound  (new 
edition) J.z.oo 

From  the  Earth  to  the  Moon  Di 
rect  in  Ninety-Seven  Hours,  Twenty 
Minutes;  and  a  Journey  Around  it.  i  vol., 
izmo $1-53 

Dick  Sands.  Superbly  illustrated  by 
ioo  full-page  cuts,  i  vol.,  8vo $3.00 

The  Demon  of  Cawnpore.    (Part  I. 

of  the  Steam  House).  Illustrated,  i  vol., 
i2mo $1.5^ 

Tigers  and   Traitors.      (Part- II.  of 

the  Steam   House).      Illustrated,      i  vol., 

I2II10 $1.50 

Eight     Hundred    Leagues    on   the 

--,  Amazon.  (Part  I.  of  the  Giant  Raf'  . 
Illustrated,  i  vol.,  i2mo $1 .50 

The  Cryptogram.     (Part   II.  of  the 

Giant  Raft).  Illustrated,   i  vol.,  ismo  $1.50 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS,   PUBLISHERS, 

743  &  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


PZ7 


